


Toll of the Bells

by mhs0501



Series: Genderbent Hunchback Of Notre Dame [2]
Category: The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996)
Genre: Abandonment, Blind Character, Canon Genderbending, Dark, Everyone's Genderbent, F/M, Fireplace troubles, Forbidden Love, Forced Prostitution, Genderbent Disney, Lust, Male rape, Notre Dame de Paris, Pain, Quasimodo had a name, Rating May Change, off screen sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-05 01:34:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 89,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4160628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mhs0501/pseuds/mhs0501
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a young infant is orphaned because of the cruel Judge Claudia Frollo, she grows up fearing her hideous appearance, hiding in the bell towers of Notre Dame where no one can judge her. Shortly before the hunchbacks twenty first birthday, a mishap at the Feast of Fools puts a handsome gypsy, Esmerald, in the line of fire. Can anything be done to save him before Frollo's lust overcomes her?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One Winters Night

_1462, Paris, Kingdom of France_

The cold night air settled on the icy waters of the Seine, only to be broken by the lapping waves of a small rowboat. Upon the double benched seats sat four adults, three looking upon the stony barriers with a hint of fear; the fourth rowing ahead until the fog parted to reveal a set of moss covered steps, the air smelling of mildew and pollution. Those three people were all gypsies, fleeing the destruction that held their home to the east. A man, his wife, and their son, as well as a small bundle that was tucked tight in sheeps wool, being only six months old.

A sharp wail sounded from the blankets, breaking the silence of the winter night, its hand reaching up to her mother. The woman clutched her tight to her bosom and rocked the child as the son placed a hand on his mother's shoulder from the back seat of the small boat. “Keep her silent!” He whispered through clenched teeth.

The ferryman also voiced his opinion, albeit more harshly. “That creature will get us killed!”

The mother wished to speak her mind but knew that now was hardly the time. She shivered and looked into her child's eyes. “Hush my little Daniela, hush!” She pleaded to the infant. Surprisingly, the girl fell silent in a matter of seconds, much to the delight of the other passengers. The fog cleared once more to reveal the powdered ground, a thin dusting of snow surrounding the docks. The rowboat ground to a halt as the ferryman got out, planting his covered feet upon the icy ground with the oar raised. “Forty gold for safe passage to Paris.” He held his hand out expectantly.

The father got out of the boat, helping his wife from the small vessel with the baby in hand, the son removed a small sack of gold coin from his cloak pocket, and dropped it into the older man’s hand.     

A sharp whistle sliced through the air as an arrow cut through the cheesecloth, spilling the coins into the ferryman’s bare hand, a few of the gold pieces clattering to the snowy ground, the clinking noise echoing on the dock. Through the fog appeared a wall of guards clad in iron suits, leather, and hats that reminded one of tea saucers. “It’s a trap!” The brothers eyes opened wide and he turned to run from the guards only for a gray horse to appear right where the young man ran.

The father turned, his eyes opened wide as he held tight to his wife, his son’s efforts to run stunted by a new, far more dangerous threat than the spears the guards were now holding up to their chests.

“Judge Claudia Frollo.” He breathed in the cold night air, the imposing figure looking down at the young man in front of her horse with silent disdain, as if he were no more than a fly buzzing around her head.

Claudia Frollo had been the justice Paris had once lacked, but was hardly just in any of her pursuits. Her facial features were high and pinched, old age creeping in on the woman like a slowly growing ivy. Her eyes were grey; cold and empty. Tonight, like all other nights, she was dressed in her black robes, a triangular hat with purple and black stripes running vertically on the sides, a long red ribbon falling to her lower back. Her white skin and pursed lips indicated her feelings of gypsies for a woman more pious than most commoners.

“Take these vermin to the Palace of Justice.” She said coldly as the guards grabbed the fathers arm and ripped him from his wife, iron manacles being slapped onto his thick wrists that weighed them down enough so he could not fight. The man was led up the steps with the ferryman, tears forming in the woman's eyes as she held the bundle of blankets tight to her chest. The baby started to squirm and wriggle as the brother backed away from the horse, placing one arm protectively around his mother.

Both of them backed away from the guards, the freezing water lapping at their heels as two of the guards cornered them, throwing the young man off his mother and into the snow, the man coughing as the wind was knocked out of him. “You there!” The guard made a grab for the bundle. “What are you hiding?” But the mother swung to the side to stop him as the other guard grabbed her arm and pinned it, only for her to rip herself free, the violet cloak tearing from her shoulders.

“Stolen goods, no doubt.” Frollo narrowed her eyes in confidence of her guess as the guard grabbed her arm once again, the brother only just managing a crouched position. “Take them from her.” She continued darkly as the young man sprung up to the guard that held his mother and gave him a harsh shove, landing the guard in the frigid river.

“Run!” Was all he could shout before the guards clobbered him, a loud snap echoing on the walls of the stone docks. His mother heeded the advice.

The gypsy dashed through the snow, her daughter in hand as the galloping of the judges horse sounded behind her. She ran under the bridge that the boat had passed under not ten minutes ago, the horse quickly gaining until she reached the steps that led to the raised sidewalk, the narrow walkway just big enough for the horse to pursue. The judge continued to gain on the mother, the latter closing her eyes as her lungs burned from overuse. But right as she feld those bony fingers on her back, a sharp clunk sounded as Frollo’s head smacked into a sandwich board sign, and a series of similar sounds occurring as the woman gained ground.

She reached a fence between the baker and the grocers, the horse crashing into an unused cart in front of said grocers and stopping her, giving the mother an inch of time to jump over the fence where a large horse could not follow. She had been to Paris only once before, and knew where she had to go.

Sprinting across the icy stepping stones to the large gray building that was Notre Dame Cathedral, the woman reached a set of the tall wooden doors and begin to bang into it with her free hand, the other still clutching her daughter. “Sanctuary! Please, give us sanctuary!” The raven haired woman shouted at the top of her lungs as Frollo caught up to her, the mother gazing in fear and trying again to run away, but to no avail this time. Her luck had run out.

Judge Frollo reached for the bundle of blankets that held little Daniela and began to tug, the sheep's wool blanket stretching as the mother refused to let go of her child. Claudia Frollo flashed her eyes at the woman and took her boot from the stirrup. She poised it, and threw her foot down hard onto the gypsies chest, forcing her to release her grip.

The force threw the woman downward, landing hard on the stone steps, her eyes rolling back into her head as a cracking sounded on the steps, a dark scarlet patch growing around her head and turning the white snow red as the roses grown in Versailles garden. But the judge didn’t care about that.

Instead, Claudia Frollo unraveled the blankets as they started to release a sharp wail. “A baby?” She mumbled under her breath and began to unwrap the soft wool to reveal the orphaned child. But when she did, she fought back the urge to cringe. The baby was deformed, hideous. There was only one explanation. “A monster!” She gasped and tucked the ugly baby close, as if exposing it to moonlight would make grow ten times its size and throttle the judge. Her darkened gaze searched for a way to dispose of the demon, desperate to rid herself of it before it did something wicked and unholy to her.

Her eyes settled to the well, but twenty feet to her right. She saw the opportunity before her, and grasped the blankets by the edge, riding the horse to the stony rim. The well was infinitely deep; and therefore fitting for sending a demon back to hell. It would sink like a stone. But right as the judge was beginning to loosen her bony fingers from the cloth that held the infant, a booming voice sounded behind her.

“Stop!” The elderly church deacon shouted from the steps, his hand out in an authoritative way.

The archdeacon of Notre Dame was a large man, short but stout. His gray hair creeped to his forehead, which was covered by a burgundy cloak. His golden cross necklace swung from side to side as he stooped down to examine the gypsy woman, his grey eyes growing round at the sight of the scarlet blotches in the pure, white snow. He clutched the mother in his arms and looked from the judge to the woman, and realized what had unfolded in a matter of seconds.

“This,” Claudia motioned to the bundle. “Is an unholy demon. I’m sending it back to hell; where it belongs.” She replied, her voice empty and unfeeling.

“See here, Frollo! This innocent blood you have spilled on the steps of the house of God!” He exclaimed with shock, the dead woman in his arms, her large eyes closed.

The judge rode away from the well, the baby still held in a precarious position as she went to face the archdeacon. “I am guiltless. She ran, I pursued.” She denied her crime in a way that made the archdeacon tear up with anger.

“And you would add this child’s blood to your guilt in clear view of God?!” He cried and stood up, lifting the dead gypsies body with him.

“My conscience is clear!” She asserted, but this only angered the pious man further.

“You can lie to yourself and your minions. You can claim that you have no qualms, but you’ll never be able to hide what you’ve done from the eyes!” The archdeacon pointed to the cathedral, the numerous statues looking out at Paris and the square.

For a moment, Claudia Frollo looked into the eyes of those statues, and felt sick. “The eyes of Notre Dame!” The man exclaimed, his eyes angered and confident. Frollo saw with the flashes of light, the eyes of the Virgin Maria, and wise men, the twelve disciples, every one of them seemed to be looking upon her with scrutiny. If this was the torment she would face now, what would happen to her immortal soul?

This was a vice she had to right.

“What must I do?” She asked breathlessly to the man below her, refusing to lower her gaze from the judgmental eyes that were watching her, waiting for her to make a decision that could save her soul from hell.

“Care for the child. Raise it as your own.” The archdeacon looked plainly at Frollo and held the body of the mother in his arms, obviously going to bury her.

“What?” The judge snapped at the pious man, unsure if she had heard him correctly. There had to be another option. She was of no right to raise a child, much less something so hideous. “I am to be settled with this misshapen-” Her voice cracked as the eyes to the statues became illuminated once more, warning her to watch what she said. “Very well. Let her live with you, in the church.” Frollo ordered.

At this the archdeacon stopped. “In the church? Where?”

“Anywhere.” The judge looked at the Gothic cathedral before her, the numerous options as to where this demon would fit in shrinking rapidly with each second. “Just so she’s kept locked away where no one else can see.” Her eyes moved up the religious structure, to the highest point. “In the bell towers, perhaps. And who knows,” She paused and unraveled the blanket to gaze upon the baby as the archdeacon gave her a curt nod and walked away to bury the mother.

“Even one day; this foul creature may prove to be…” She paused. “Of use to me.” She smiled wicked at the baby, knowing she had made the correct choice…

* * *

 

“And Judge Frollo gave the girl a cruel name,” Celestine said slyly to the Parisian children drawn into her little puppet show. “And whether or not it was from the date; Quasimodo Sunday, or the meaning of half-formed, it still remains:” The young woman paused to straighten her hat, which was tipping to the side. “Qausimoda.” She finished as the street children gasped and one or two shuddered.

“No one has ever seen her; she may be but a legend. But eh, what else could ring the bells of Notre Dame?” She asked rhetorically, to which three of the children answered; much to her annoyance.

Celestine, or as the other gypsies knew her as; Clopine, owned a small wagon in which she performed marionette and puppet shows for the children who could afford to pay. The meager earnings she did make that wasn’t illegally confiscated by guards kept a loaf of sourdough bread on the table and if she was lucky, maybe a glass of ale.   

She enjoyed puppetry, but it didn’t pay too well.

The colorful covered wagon stood like a neon target in the bland streets of Paris, the shade of the overcrowded buildings keeping her cool in the sweltering summers, and the heat from the hearths kept her warm in the winters. She had raven black hair that grew long to her lower back, a slight wave pushing it out into a slight bush, small wisps coming out here and there under her performing hat; which may as well have been just a hat because she performed so often. It, like the rest of her life, was worn and colorful, the shade being a sharp navy blue with a golden yellow feather plume popping out of the brim like a streak of wheat. Her everyday clothes were reminiscent of a jokers outfit from the court of a long forgotten king. The colors gold, blue and purple in crazy geometric patterns on her tunic and breeches. Decorative bangles and bells hung on the ends and seams like that of a reindeer's harness, but made not a sound. Her shoes blue boots that folded in thick rings around her ankles. Black leather gloves encroached her small hands, like an extra cover aside from the hand puppets.

“Alright, alright. Now go on home and get ready for the festival, kids!” She said after five minutes of proposed theories as to what lived in the bell tower. She had to get ready herself, the gypsy being the hostess of the Feast of Fools for the day. After the kids dispersed, she picked up the jug of coins and poured it out, counting out how much the kids had given. She sighed. “Hm. A light week.” Clopine shrugged before pulling the shutter down, the light filtering in through the cloth roof in small colorful patches from the patches of cloth. She stood up, and opened the trunk she normally sat on, and begin raffling through the numerous outfits she owned, most of it being small costume pieces; masks, feather flumes, hats, and more. She found what she was looking for, a purple Venetian Carnival mask with almond eyes, and a long nose.

“Perfect.” She smiled and tucked the party mask on.


	2. Give Me One Day

In the light of the ten o’clock sunrise, a thin layer of clouds filtered the golden embrace on the city of Paris. Yet, in the silence, an even tolling of the hourly bells shook the gray stone of Notre Dame, as well as the bystanders that flocked to set up the Feast of Fools. Colorful tents and banners were being strung on every lamppost and sign, the dreary atmosphere being overshadowed by the pageantry of the gypsies and peasants. 

 

And overseeing the entire event from her perch above the streets, a hunched young woman. 

 

The young hunchback, a peasant by birth; was the mysterious force that reminded the vibrant and crowded city the time and date, the bells of the church being an eternal marker like a clock in the center of town. One simply had to count the number of tolls from the bells that echoed high in the steeple of the Gothic cathedral to have a measurement of the day. One toll added with each hour that passed, finally reaching its climax in the dark midnight skies at twelve rings. Holidays and festivals were marks by the sounds as well, light and soft bells sounding at the months of Yule, and dark and thundering bells rocking the city at passover and Easter Sunday, only to be replaced by the jubilant ringing once again by the next week.

 

On this day, Quasimoda walked out to the bough on the south tower, the mouth of a stone gargoyle acting as a nest for the one of the hundreds of fledgling birds that nested within the drafty parapets.         

 

“Good morning,” Quasimoda said softly to the little white bird, which cooed softly in the mouth of the statue. “You ready to fly? Is today gonna be the day?” She asked the small white pile of downy feathers. The bird looked at her and moved the back part of its wings upward, as if to shrug at her question. 

 

The confident look dissolved into one of confusion. “You’re sure? It’s a good day to try!” The gentle giant indicated the fading overcast where a flock of the migratory birds left the cathedral; just like they did every January. 

 

“Why,” She moved both of her hands to the mouth of the gargoyle, taking the baby bird in both hands, the feathers not tickling her calloused palms. “If I could pick a day to fly; oh, this would be it!” The hunchback chuckled lightly and moved her outstretched hands over the stone railing, where a host of colorful tents and booths were being set up in the square below her, the calls of the gypsies echoing off the stone colossus. “The Festival of Fools!”  

 

Quasimoda blew a strand of ginger hair from her forehead as a small chirp came from her hands, the bird looking down at the world beneath it. 

 

She held the bird up to the safety of the cathedral, seeing no change in the birds willingness to fly. But knew she had to convince it to at least try. 

 

“It’ll be fun! There’ll be jugglers, and music;” A beat of air blew against her hands as the baby bird began to flap its wings and float; slowly, but steadily above her embrace. “And dancing, and…” She stopped after the bird reached the height of her head, holding her hands up for the bird to see as proof that it was flying, and was ready to leave. The bird opened its eyes and looked at Quasimoda, then back at the ground beneath them, and released a lovely, confident chirp as it stopped flapping its wings and fell back into the hunchbacks waiting hands.  

 

She started laughing softly at the accomplishment right as the flock of birds flew by, the cooing echoing like a call to the baby bird to join them. The bird in question began chirping wildly, looking between the hunchback and the flock, as if to say it was eager and ready to leave the cathedral it had grown up in. 

 

Inside, Quasimoda felt a pang of jealousy. But it didn’t bother her for the moment. She had bigger things to attend to. With a kind smile, she stroked the scruff on the bird’s head. “Now go on! Nobody wants to stay cooped up here forever!” The young woman recoiled one of her hands as the baby bird began to flap its small wings and take flight, trying to catch up to the rest of its flock.                                           

 

The hunchback watched with silent content as the flock of birds disappeared into the light of the sun to the right of the Palace of Justice, free to go and come as it wished. 

 

“If only…” She mused before a loud gagging sound caught her attention. 

 

“Ugh!” The gargoyle spit the bunches of straw from her mouth, combing the stray bits from her tongue with her cloven hooves. “I thought that rat would never leave! I’ll be spitting feathers for a week!” She complained as a bunch of white downy feathers poured from in between her bottom teeth. 

 

“Well Harry, that’s what you get for sleeping with your mouth open!” The gargoyle on Quasimoda’s left answered to the plight of the talking statue.

 

“Ha ha ha, go scare a priest.” The gargoyle mumbled under her breath, knowing Victoria had been right. 

 

She quickly forgot what she was mad about and leaned over into Quasimoda, a playful glint in her grey eyes. “Hey, what’cha watchin’? A fight? A flogging?” She guessed as the hunchback looked down at the festival being set up below them. 

 

“A festival.” Victoria guessed leaning in on the girls right. The gentle giant nodded, her ginger locks blowing in the light breeze.

 

“You mean the Feast of Fools?” Harry guessed with so much enthusiasm Quasimoda doubted when Harry said she couldn’t fly. 

 

“Uh huh.” She replied in a bored tone, despite the giddy atmosphere.

 

“Alright, alright! Pour the wine,” The pig like gargoyle held out one of her arms in a pouring motion. “And cut the cheese!” She started armpit farting, much to Victoria’s dismay. 

 

“It is a delight to witness the colorful pageantry of the simple peasants.” She added in a soft, alto voice. 

 

Harry scooted over, knocking Victoria to the side at she vied to cheer her friend up. “Nothing like balcony seats for watching the old FOF, eh Quasi?” She peered down at the square below. 

 

A huff came from the twenty year old woman, her eyes dark and bored. “Yeah; watch.” She said halfheartedly and turned to walk away from the balcony, the sight of the yearly tradition too much to bear. 

 

“Hey, wait! What gives?” Harry turned to the hunchback, who didn’t answer. 

 

Victoria followed the gargoyles gaze, her face etched with confusion. “Aren’t you going to watch the festival with us?” She called out to Quasimoda as she turned the corner to go inside the bell tower. 

 

“I don’t get it.” Harry admitted defeat as Victoria looked over at her fellow gargoyle with a look of horror striking her face. 

 

“Do you think she’s sick?” She asked breathlessly. 

 

“Impossible!” Lorenzo hopped hands first, a flock of pigeons following behind as he came closer. “If twenty years of listening to the two of you hasn’t made her sick by now,” He scoffed and hopped to the ground from the stone railing, the pigeons trailing behind like a shadow. “Nothing will.” He finished with a small cackle.   

 

Harriet, Victoria and Lorenzo were three stone gargoyles that had resided in the Notre Dame Cathedral since it had been completed, watching over the city in silent awe until a baby was brought into the bell towers by Judge Claudia Frollo, interest taking hold of the three statues almost the instant the cruel judge left. At one point it had been Victoria who heard what the child’s name was, and from then on the girl was known as Quasimoda. Harriet, or as she liked to be called: Harry, was short, chubby, and had pig like features, tall horns, and small wings. She was constantly fooling around, gutsy, and always able to entertain the hunchback whenever possible. Victoria was the tallest of the three, had a slim build yet soft features that were covered by a thin jumble of stone where horns once rested, but gave the appearance of hair. She had the largest wings of the three, the texture being far more feather like; like that of an angel. Her personality was knowledgeable, educated, and often the most rational. Lorenzo was the eldest, being carved far before Notre Dame for a cathedral in a place he called the Vatican, but was shipped the Paris instead because gargoyles were not wanted in the Vatican. He was wise, cynical, and easily the most nurturing of the gargoyles, his hunched back and wrinkled features not unlike Quasimoda herself, layered horns poking out of his head the same shape as the goatee on his chin. All three considered the hunchback family, Frollo hardly ever coming up for visits. 

 

“But watching the Feast of Fools has always been the highlight of the year for her!” Victoria protested, throwing a thin hand down to indicate the festival in the square, the construction nearing completion. 

 

“And tell me Victoria; what fun is watching the party when you can’t join in?” He responded with a blunt stare before hopping along into the bell tower to comfort Quasimoda, who was slumped at a table that overlooked the west alley of Paris. 

 

On that table was an extensive model of wood and craft supplies that resembled the square around the cathedral to near exact detail; the faces of the whittled and painted citizens as they had been for the past twenty years. The articulate paint and carving of facial features and expressions gave the figures a new life all their own. The shepherd holding a faint look of amorous love for the milkmaid down the way, the grocer holding a dark stare at his across-the-street rival, as if pondering the recipe to the other man’s souffle. Even the superfluity held a gaze of eternal kindness and knowledge towards the superior that led them. 

 

Ever since she was ten, the bell ringer had discovered a talent for whittling, the only ones impressed by it the gargoyles; as her Mistress looked on with silent indifference at her adopted daughter’s talent. 

 

“She’s not made of stone like us.” He continued as their voices echoed through the lofty towers. 

 

Quasimoda sat on a stool at her table, looking over the small people, the small bits of wood shavings sitting in corkscrew curls around the pebble plaza. She let loose a sigh of discontent, burying her head in her hands. 

 

The three gargoyle watched from the curtained off archway, none of them having ever seen their friend in such a state of self pity. Finally, Lorenzo hobbled up to the table, his withered face level with the hunchbacks. 

 

“Quasi, what’s wrong?” He placed a thin hand on her muscular shoulder. “You wanna tell your old patrizio all about it?” Lorenzo had the small quirk of saying some things in Italian, the time he spent in the workshop giving him a broader knowledge of both that and French. 

 

The young woman gave a small grunt. “I just don’t feel like watching the festival, okay?” 

 

“Well,” The gargoyle mused putting his hand on one of the carved women in a simple purple dress. “Did that thought of going ever come to you?” 

 

“Sure.” She admitted. “But I’d never fit in out there. I’m not…” Quasimoda paused and took the figure from Lorenzo, looking at the beautifully thin figure, delicate features, lack of scars. “Normal.” The hunchback deadpanned and set the woman back down on the table, to which the fatherly gargoyle chuckled lightly and picked up the wooden masterpiece, twisting it indifferently in his stone gray fingers. 

 

“Quasi,” He began as one of the pigeons landed on his nose, and he lost his patience. In an instant a string of horrible swearing that would have made a drunk man shiver flew from the gargoyle's mouth like the ten pigeons. In Italian of course.

 

At this moment, Harry hopped on the table, and took a figure from the bell towers. That figure was a hunched wooden chunk at wat abstract at best, the features like that of a seven year olds drawing; which it in the simplest of terms was. Quasimoda had been carving since the age of six, her self portrait being a source of inspiration to continue after Frollo complimented the resemblance of it; to which the young girl hadn’t understood at the time. She hadn’t the heart to change it, the crude figure being exactly what she thought she was: ugly.

 

“Stop beating around the bell towers. What do we gotta do? Paint you a fresco?” SHe took the figure of Quasimoda and placed it among the villagers in the square. 

 

“As your friends and guardians, we insist you attend the festival.” Victoria piped up from behind and pulled the hunchback to turn around on the stool, her thin composure holding quite a bit of muscle. 

 

“Me?” She questioned as if she hadn’t heard the statement correctly. 

 

Harry stifled a giggle. “No, the pope.” She held a pope figure in her hands, then knocked Quasimoda on the head with it playfully. “Of  _ course _ you!” She gave a piggish smile. 

 

“It would be a veritable  _ popery, _ ” Victoria snatched the pope figure from Harry’s cloven hoof and held it aloft. “Of education.” She finished as the other gargoyle interrupted her. 

 

“Wine, whittlers and then some!” She juggled three of the carved people like an expert in her hooves.

 

“You could learn to identify various regional cheeses,” Victoria began once more only to be cut off once more. 

 

“Bobbin’ for snails!” Harry held up a big bucket of water with slugs in it. 

 

“Study indigenous folk music-” The thinner was stopped short as Harry dumped the bucket of water on her head.    
  


“Playin’ dunk the monk!” She laughed confidently at her prank. 

 

At this, Quasimoda stared ahead blankly, unsure just what, if anything, had changed her opinion about going. She had cheese as well as wine when her mistress came to visit, and didn’t think much of it. Bobbing for snails sounded disgusting, and she didn’t find any humor or justice in drowning anyone; much less a monk. 

 

“Quasi,” Lorenzo placed a hand on her shoulder to get her attention. “Take it from an old spettatore.” He removed the hand and indicated himself. “Life’s not a spettatore sport. If watching is all you’re gonna do,” He walked his fingers on the air. “Then you’re gonna watch your life go right on by without you.” He finished with a knowing smile. 

 

“Yeah!” Harry piped up as Victoria was beginning to peel slugs from the bucket away from her stone features. “You’re human, what with the flesh and bone and heart,” She thumped the young womans chest. “We’re just part of the architecture.” Harry then thumped her own chest to reveal the solid sound of rock clicking onto rock. “Right Victoria?” She nudged the thin gargoyle, who gave her a death stare. 

 

“If you chip us; do we not flake? And should you moisten us,” Victoria peeled a slug from her hip. “Do we not moisten?” She flicked the moist creature onto Harry’s head, who started shrieking in a desperate effort to remove it from her head, the gargoyle placing the bucket over Harry’s head to silence her.

 

“Quasi, just grab a fresh tunic and a clean pair of hosen,” Lorenzo wrapped both arms around the hunchbacks enormous bicep. “And just-” 

 

The girl held her other hand over Leonardo’s, her gaze dim and unchanged. “Thank you all for the encouragement, but you’re all forgetting one very important thing.” She eased the old gargoyles hands off of her arm and waited for an answer, but got three ‘whats.’ 

 

“My mistress, Frollo.” She deadpanned and produced a figure of her mistress; also an early work, but far better than her self portrait. A chorus of saddened agreement came from the statues, Harry tossing the bucket aside after having gotten rid of it and the slug. 

 

“Well,” Victoria held her head in her chin. “When she says you’re forbidden from ever leaving the bell tower; does she mean  _ ever _ ever?” She looked for a loophole, to which the hunchback quickly responded. 

 

“Never ever! And she hates the Feast of Fools.” The bell ringer deadpanned, twirling a strand of ginger hair in her large fingers. “Mistress would be furious if I asked to go.” 

 

A mischievous smile surfaced on Harry’s face. “Wait; who says you gotta ask?”

 

“Oh no,” Quasimoda shook her head, her eyes alert with dread. 

 

“You sneak on out;” Harry illustrated by walking her cloven hoof in a bouncing motion. Lorenzo also voiced his opinion. “It’s only for one afternoon.” He nodded. 

 

“I-I could never-”

 

“And… you sneak right back in!” The fat gargoyle mused at the horrible plan. “The vecchiaccia will be none the wiser!” Lorenzo agreed. 

 

“And if I got caught-” The hunchback ran both beefy hands through her hair, beads of sweat trickling down her forehead at the thought of it. 

 

“Better to beg for forgiveness than to ask permission.” Victoria stated matter-of-factly. 

 

“But if she saw me-” Quasimoda suggested setting the figure of her mistress beside the figure of herself. 

 

Harry grabbed an old curtain that was a shade of burgundy and full of holes; just like their plan. “You could wear a disguise!” She suggested wrapping herself in the worn fabric like the habit and robes of a nun. “It’s only once! What Frollo doesn’t know, can’t hurt her!” Harry began to clumsily sneak around, ending up behind Victoria, who looked at her fellow statue with a look of mutual respect. 

 

“After all, ignorance is bliss!” She chuckled as Harry hopped on top of her and gave her a noogie, wearing away the chips in her weathered horns. 

 

“Nobody wants to stay cooped up here forever!” Lorenzo gave the bell ringer a small punch to the arm, to which she smiled at. They were all right. It wouldn’t be that bad. And as much as she hated to admit it; she didn’t want to stay in the bell tower forever. Just once would be enough; knowing the odds. 

 

“You know what; you’re right. I’ll go!” She stood up and began a confident walk; or limp, towards the archway where her tunics were. Happy cheers sounded from all three of them. 

 

“I’ll get cleaned up;” She mused throwing a fist ahead of her in confidence as if that hand was leading her forth to a new beginning. 

 

“I’ll stroll down those stairs,” Quasimoda smiled at the thought, wandering free in Paris. 

 

“Walk through those doors and-” 

 

“Hello, Quasimoda.” A dark silky voice greeted the hunchback.  Her Mistress, Claudia Frollo, stood directly in front of her.  


	3. Out There

The harsh and deathly pale features of Judge Claudia Frollo had been an inspiration of uneasiness and fear for Quasimoda, despite having seen her often. Her adopted mother was judge in the Palace of Justice, a rare title for a woman. The dominant male council had been livid of the decision, but it soon became clear what inspired the decision. Claudia Frollo had fought tooth and nail to become an ordained minister in one of the many smaller churches in Paris’ Reuilly district, and was known for harsh, but generally strict attitude that caught the eye of a French nobleman, who nominated her for council position. Of course, it was not carried through, but seeing the passion of her ideals, made her judge for the Court of Miracles and it's many sorted affairs.

The ruthlessness she displayed in her line of work was uncanny, to say the least. In her idea of a perfect world, there were strict guidelines on every aspect of life; from when to cut hair, to when to make it into a wig. She took no form of humor or nonsense, choosing when the opportunity was presented to just ignore any ploys or jokes thrown her way. Her dress attire was the customary black and violet robes that were worn for her position, always crisp and clean. Everything about her suggested a tightened lifestyle fit for the exemplary Christen.

It was this that frightened most into obeying her, including her adopted daughter.

Quasimoda had been as the judges mercy all of her life. Her grotesque appearance looked upon kindly by the vain and cruel woman; despite what the hunchback heard from her adopted mother. She was told as soon as she could speak to say the phrase: ‘I am ugly’ in a mirror, the vocabulary growing more extensive and hurtful as she grew older. It had stung at first; but over the years, the hunchback became accustomed to the ridicule she heard, listening with a passive face all the while. After twenty years, those words lost all meaning; at least from Frollo.

Quasimoda knew she was hideous, but it was worse than a flogging to hear it from someone who hadn’t bothered to speak with her. Watching in on Paris’ conversations, she had seen and heard things that kept her where she was. Horrible words that she didn’t know, the sound of snapping necks and slicing flesh becoming sounds that echoed through the bell towers on occasion, the judge often coming up to watch with Quasimoda from the greatest view in the city; at least, when she wasn’t required to read the sentence of death. The hunchback became all too aware of the atrocities of the world below her, most of it coming from the mouth of Frollo.

The world was a place she was afraid of, that was, until today. Something within the hunchback broke free. She had spent years watching, but she wanted more than that. Looking on just wasn’t enough anymore. Unfortunately for her, the judge would always stand in her way. Her thought were interrupted when her mother spoke once more.

“My dear child,” Quasimoda blinked from her silent thoughts. “Whomever are you talking to?”  

             

The question seemed so innocuous, but it made a hard lump form in her throat. If she had heard that, what else had she noticed?

“My;” She paused, unable to take the embarrassment. “Friends.” The hunchback looked down in shame, unable to meet her dark eyes.

“And what, my daughter,” The judge revealed a basket of woven hay and reeds with a bundle of cheesecloth tucked over the opening and tapped the stone of Victoria’s still head, the sound chipping rock echoing in the lofty rafters. “Are your friends made out of?” She seemed to have realized just who Quasimoda was talking to.

The hunch took a deep breath, leaning her arched spine against one of the wooden supports, wanting to shrink back into it and away into nothingness. “Stone.” She replied in a tone so meek it was barely audible.

Frollo held her hand to her daughter’s chin and lifted her fallen head, the ginger locks brushing against her fingers. “Can stone talk?” She leaned to face the gentle giant.

Despite what was the truth, Quasimoda could only say the answer her mistress would want to hear. “No, Mistress.” She responded, her voice cracking.

“Very good.” Frollo smiled and let go of her chin before taking a tall stride to the cushioned stool and sitting down on it, setting the basket on the small table. “Now,” She nodded curtly. “Lunch.”

Despite the fact that it was ten o’clock in the morning, Quasimoda hobbled over to the shelf that was delicately positioned between the backs of two unfinished statues. On the top shelf was her Mistress’s dish and cup, both resembling the Palace of Justice in an uncanny way, the sharp, jagged and dark angles not unlike what laid on the other end of the Island of the City. While on the lower shelf, there rested her own dishware, a wooden trencher and hand carved cup that was a clear effigy of her life: plain.

Taking the plates and cups down with no difficulty at the speed she was going at, Quasimoda dashed back to the table and put the objects down at the correct ends before seating herself on an overturned bucket.

Frollo unfolded the cheesecloth to reveal a thin book bound by felt and leather, a red satin ribbon peeking out from between the pages. It had been Frollo’s own handicraft, the judge enjoying such things from time to time. Sealed within the parchment paper were large letters, each of which stood for a different word that was meant to undermine and insult the young hunchback. This was how Quasimoda was taught the alphabet. They had started as of last week with the bell ringer getting all the way to H without a hitch. Of course, Quasimoda was well learned on the letters of the alphabet, and was already far more educated in most things grammar-wise than the average peasant, but Frollo either didn’t know, or didn’t care.

“Shall we review your alphabet today, Quasimoda?” She asked opening the book in her pale, needle thin fingers.

The hunchback looked up from her plate with a veil of discomfort shielding her disdain. She absentmindedly twirled a lock of ginger hair in between her fingers before answering: “Yes Mistress. I would like that very much.” In a quiet but forward manner.

“Very good.” The judge offered in a tone that suggested that was as much praise as she would be receiving. “A,” She removed an aged bottle of wine from the cheesecloth and uncorked it with her nails, pouring a splash of the red liquid into her daughter’s cup.

“Abomination.” The bell ringer responded in the blink of an eye.

“B,” Frollo continued and poured her glass to halfway right as Quasimoda answered: “Blasphemy.”

“C,” The judge stuck the cork of the wine back into the bottle. “Contrition.” She continued with feigned enthusiasm.

“D,” Frollo unwrapped a bundle in the cloth, revealing an aged brie wheel the size of Quasimoda’s beefy hand. “Damnation.”

“E,” The judge removed a knife from her sleeve and sliced a chunk of the smoky cheese for her adopted daughter, setting it on the wooden trencher as the hunchback answered: “Eternal Damnation.” With a tone of confidence.

“Good.” The woman responded, knowing that her daughter had missed E the day before. “F,” she took a sip of wine from her goblet.

“Festival.” The bell ringer said, which she immediately brought a hand to her mouth as the judge spit out her wine in shock, tearing a handkerchief from the pocket of her robes and dabbing it to her lips. “Excuse me?” The judge asked as if not having heard her daughter correctly.

“Oh, uh; Forgiveness!” The hunchback righted her mistake, but it was too late.

“You said Festival.” Frollo closed the felt cover of the book with a quick motion of her hand as Quasimoda tried to take back what she said, panting heavily from anxiety. “No!” She said with a tone of fear louder than the bells.

“You are thinking about going to the festival.” Frollo stood up as her daughter tried to catch up to her, her limb not slowing her as much as it once did.

“It-it’s just that; you go every year and-”

“I;” Frollo cut her off as she started towards the stairs to the balcony. “Am a public official. I am required to attend. But I don’t enjoy a moment of it.” She began down the wooden steps in a brisk stride.

“Thieves and cutlasess;” the elder quickened her pace, the red ribbon of her hat trailing behind her with Quasimoda as her shadow. “The dregs of humankind all…” She trailed off as she struggled to think of the correct word. “Mixed together in a disgusting, drunken stupor.” Frollo cringed at the idea as she strolled through the tall arch and into the light of the sun.

“I did not mean to upset you Mistress.” The bell ringer said softly from behind her as her daughter walked through the same archway.

“Quasimoda, that is not what this is about; you do not understand.” The judge reached the bridge between the two bell towers, the view of dreary Paris not impressive to her in the least as Quasimoda reached her guardians side. “When your heartless mother abandoned you as an infant, left in nothing but a wool blanket on the steps of this very cathedral, anyone else would have drowned you.” She threw a hand over the railing to indicate the people in the streets of Paris.

“And this is the thanks I receive for taking you in and raising you as my daughter?”

The hunchback lowered her face in shame, her ginger hair spilling in long wisps down the crown of her head, her hands clasped in a forgiving manner. “I am sorry Mistress.” She responded softly to the intimidating shadow that was Claudia Frollo.

“Oh, my dear girl.” The judge’s gaze softened to one more motherly. “You do not know what it’s like out there.” She lifted an arm and guided the bell ringer into a comforting hug; if one could call it that. “I do.” They both looked down upon the city, Frollo’s black eyes alight with wisdom.

“I do.” She reasserted her claim as if Quasimoda had not heard her the first time.

 

 _“The world is cruel,”_ She began to sing in a dark, alto voice. _“The world is wicked.”_ She indicated the festival below them.

_“It’s I alone whom you can trust in this whole city!”_ The judge grabbed her daughter, wrapping her bony fingers around her large shoulders in a tough grip. “I am your only friend.” she held her fingers in a soft touch around Quasimoda’s face with a charmingly wicked smile.

_“I who teach you, feed you,”_ Frollo ran her hand through a fringe of ginger hair that fell over the hunchbacks good eye, dragging her fallen face upward to ensure she paid attention. _“Clothe you!”_ She brought a hand to her adopted daughters thin green shirt, giving it a tug as if to prove her point.

_“I who look upon you without fear,”_ She cupped the bell ringers triangular jaw softly.

_“How can I protect you, dear? Unless you always stay in here,”_ The judge moved away and back towards the cathedrals bell tower like an invisible force was tugging her away. _“Away, in here.”_ She trailed off and began a slow and orderly stroll up the stairs with Quasimoda following behind.

“Remember what I taught you, Quasimoda.” Frollo recalled the lessons in the mirror’s reflection.

_“You are deformed.”_ She continued up the stairs.

_“I am deformed.”_ Quasimoda repeated in a soft soprano to her mistresses alto.

_“And you are ugly.”_ The judge sung to harshly on the final word it made the bells ring with a hurtful echo.

_“And I am ugly.”_ The hunchback could feel her will breaking under the army of normally harmless insults.

_“And these are things for which the world has little pity!”_ The pair reached the top of the steps, Frollo stopping her stride at the table as her adopted daughter slumped down in her stool, her large arms draped over the front in a near robotic motion. _“You do not comprehend!”_ Frollo threw a hand down to indicate the hunchbacks ignorance.

_“You are my one defender.”_ She responded softly.

_“Out there they’ll revile you as a monster.”_ The elder woman continued as Quasimoda picked up her self portrait, the crudely made wooden figure a constant reminder that she was ugly.

_“I am a monster.”_ She felt a lump rising in her throat.

_“Out there they will taunt and scorn and jeer.”_ The hunchback picked up the figure of a normal woman, the local seamstress; if she recalled. _“Why invite their calumny and consternation, stay in here!”_

__

With a brush of her sleeve, Mistress Frollo toppled the other figures from their stance. “Do as I say,” She eased the wooden figure of the hunchback out of Quasimoda’s hand and lowered it onto the bridge of the cathedral where they had been standing only moments earlier.

“And stay in here.” The two of them finished the song together with the hunchback looking sadly at the self portrait that was perched between the two towers. Trapped.

Like her.

Frollo took the basket from the table that contained her lunch, and set it down on the model table where the figures of Paris had once stood. “You are good to me Mistress.” Quasimoda replied softly. “I’m sorry.” She finished breathlessly.

Frollo strolled towards the stairs that would carry her from the building. “You are forgiven dear. But remember Quasimoda,” She paused and turned around. “This,” She lifted her frail arms to indicate the vast lofts around them. “Is your sanctuary.” The judge finished and walked down the stairs, out of sight.

For what felt like hours, all Quasimoda could do was stare ahead, blankly. Just as she had done all her life. All she could do was be silent. Content, as Frollo expected of her. “Sanctuary.” She whispered and looked around the dusty loft she called home. But it wasn’t a home. She thought. It was a prison.

She looked at the model of Paris she had worked on in her years of solitude. And realized no matter how detailed she had made it, how lifelike their faces were, it had never compared to the real thing. And if it didn’t then, it wouldn’t now. It wouldn’t ever.

A tear rolled down her cheek at that thought.

_“Safe behind these windows and these parapets of stone,”_ Quasimoda lifted her head to look at the ten o’clock sunlight filtering through the rafters, small bits of dust glowing in the golden light.        

_“Gazing at the people down below me,”_ She looked through the blinders at the festival being set up below, a gust of wind blowing her ginger hair to one side. _“All my life I’ve watched them as I hide up here alone, hungry for the histories they’ve shown me.”_ The hunchback turned from the view to pick up the carving of the seamstress that her Mistress had knocked to the floor, observing her soft and kind features.

_“All my life I’ve memorized their faces. Knowing them as they will never know me.”_ She set the wooden likeness down on the table, absentmindedly taking the effigy of herself in her thumb and index finger.

_“All my life I’ve wondered how it feels to pass a day, not above them;”_ Quasimoda set the figure of herself down on the table with the other citizens of the wooden city. _“But part of them!”_

_“And out there, living in the sun!”_ The young girl’s voice raised from a meek and silent voice to a strong and alive one, her large hands perched over the stone railing as she hopped over it and into the light of day, catching onto a column with one hand, reaching out into the world around her.

_“Give me one day out there;”_ Quasimoda slid down the column and down to the bottom level of the bridge, where Harry, Victoria, and Leonardo were alive once more. _“All I ask is one, to hold forever!”_ She hugged the three of them close.

_“Out there! Where they all live unaware;”_ The hunchback hung by one of the columns over the face of Notre Dame. _“What I’d give;”_ She swung to a nearby column on one hand. _“Would I dare?”_

She slid down another set of railings to the front of the cathedral, in front of the main circular window of the main hall, the light reflecting beautifully in the stained glass. _“Just to live one day out there!”_

__

_“Out there among the millers and the weavers and their wives! Through the roofs and gables I can see them! Everyday day they shout and scold and go about their lives, heedless of the gift it is to be them!”_ The hunchback ran up one of the many flying buttresses that acted as aqueducts for the cathedral.

_“If I were in their skin,”_ A moment of pure joy flooded ever her as she hopped onto the thin stone rail, the water cascading as she slid down the aqueduct in what seemed like a well balanced move. _“I’d treasure every instant!”_ Quasimoda skidded to a stop at the end of the arched area of the drain. _“Out there, strolling by the Seine, taste a morning out there, like ordinary men,”_ She climbed back to the central tower over the cross of the holy building.

_“Who freely go about there, just one day and then,”_ The hunchback climbed upon the crossed spire, the wind liberating her every word. _“I swear I’ll be content, with my share!”_

She dismounted the central spire and ran across the gable of the roof, her old shoes sliding against the gravel as she picked up speed. _“Won’t resent, won’t despair! Old and bent, I won’t care! I’ll have spent one day;”_

  
She skidded to a stop on the railing of the bridge, the sun coming out from behind the clouds. _“Out there!”_ Her strong voice echoed through the city.


	4. Join the Bums and Thieves and Strumpets

As the hunchbacks final note echoed one last time with the noon bells, a young woman in a cobalt blue cloak strolled through the streets of Paris with a large map in hand, the reins of a white horse tied loosely to her arm. “Tuileries, hmmm. can’t make sense of it. Leave town for a half a decade and they change everything.” She groaned and crumpled the map up in her gloved hands and tossed it behind her carelessly.

Captain Phoebe of the Armee de Terre had spent the last three weeks trying to get home from the war, a personal request from the council having brought her back to Paris for use in domestic order. She had at first been relieved, then intrigued. After all, what kind of unrest would require her to deal with it?

She was supposed to be at the Palace of Justice by half past noon, and at this rate, it didn’t seem like she was going to make it without help. Help came in the form of a guard.

“Excuse me,” She reached out to get his attention. “Can you direct me to the Palace of-” Her voice trailed off as the guard walked right past her without so much as a nod. “I guess not.” She mumbled, blowing a strand of straw blonde hair from her face. Another guard strolled in her general direction.

“Palace of Justice monsieur?” She bit her lip as the guard continued walking, Phoebe wanting to kick herself for using such formalities to a man hardly worth her respect. The captain figured it best to continue walking, hoping a little luck would find her well. Chalumeau tunes drifted through the gray cobblestone streets along with the jangling of a tambourine and the hoofs of a goat. The sounds came from an inlaid corner, two gypsies and a goat the source of the strangely enchanting music.

Vines wrapped around the stone wall, the shade casting dark shadows over the lighthearted teenagers. Both looked to be around that age anyhow. A girl with raven hair played the reed instrument on the bench, a bouncy and lively tune emitting from the instrument. Her eyes were scrunched closed, as if the process of making the music was something that required vast concentration. To her left, a boy that looked not a day past seventeen shook the tambourine with all the smooth grace of a gliding swan.

He was barefoot, the bottoms of his feet near black as a result, and possessed a tawny tint to his skin the contrasted heavily with his raven black hair. The teen was dressed in a white poets shirt that clung to his fit frame only to poof out at his arms; the article unbuttoned down to mid chest, violet straight pants, a turquoise and golden striped bodice and a matching scarf tied tight around his waist, golden bangles lacing the outer ring of the scarf. Along with that there was an anklet and a stud the protruded from his labret, both a matching shade of gold. His features were fair, and upon closer inspection of said features Phoebe noticed a spot of the gypsy boys left eyebrow was shaved from a former piercing directly above his emerald green eyes.        

He seemed to notice the captain was staring and gave her a playful grin, batting the tambourine lightly in a near sensual manner as the captain found herself dropping a handful of coins she had leftover from lunch into a plum purple hat that the goat had in the brim of its teeth.

“Steal us blind.” She heard a mother say as she dragged her son past the two teenagers and the goat. Their stare was interrupted by a loud whistle that came from above the wall, presumably from a boy that was watching the performance. The goat seemed to take that as some sort of signal. Unfortunately, he still had the brim of the hat in his teeth, the creature only realizing the mistake with the clatter of the many gold coins. The two gypsies gasped and began to run off, the boy looking back at the scattered pieces of gold and turning back, squatting to the ground to collect his earnings.

He had just finished gathering the coins in the small hat right as the shadows of two guards falling over him, the boys gaze darkening to a hard glare.

“Alright gypsy,” The guard made a grab for the hat, his gloved hand clasping around the brim as the teenager glared. “Where’d you get the money?”

The gypsy shot him a withering scowl. “For your information I earned it.” He tugged the hat free and backed up, narrowing his green irises threateningly.

“Gypsies don’t earn money.” The taller guard responded and rolled his eyes in audacity of the teenagers claim.

“You’d steal it!” The fatter guard of the two grabbed the boy by his shoulders, said boy struggling to break out of his iron grip.

“You’d know a lot about stealing,” The gypsy gritted his teeth as the tall guard pulled at the hat again.

“Troublemaker!” The guard laughed as Phoebe raised a blonde eyebrow at the events unfolding. “Maybe a day in the stocks will cool you down!” The man jeered at the teenager as he delivered a missed kick to his captors stomach. At this, came an unexpected action.

The goat peered up at the guards and lunged at the fat one, knocking the heavy man over as his armor weighed him down like a turtle flipped on its back. The tall guard made a grab for the small white goat and was met with a back hoof kick to the jaw, the man toppling over as the gypsy took the opportunity and ran with the hat in hand and his goat trailing behind.

“Come back here gypsy!” The guards regained their stance and began to chase after said gypsy, a thought coming to Phoebe’s mind as she gave Hippolyta’s reins a sharp tug that made the horse reer forward like a wall to stop the men, both slamming into the white horse and slumping to the street, the fat one falling back onto his large behind and the tall one collapsing directly below the horse's rear.

Another devious idea entered the captain’s mind. “Lyta, sit.” She whispered and looked into the animals onyx eyes as the horse followed her commands. She planted her butt on top of the guards back, a heavy wheeze coming from said guard as the air was pushed from his lungs like a fireplace bellows.

“Oh dear, I’m sorry.” Phoebe said in a smarmy tone, casting a look and not seeing the gypsy boy anywhere, a smile crossing her face as she realized her plan had succeeded. The laughs of the other peasants echoing at the guards misfortune. “Naughty horse, naughty!” She feigned scolding her faithful companion.

“Really, you just can’t be too careful.” She continued as the guard moaned from beneath the beast's rear, his cries pitiful and near humorous after watching his flare of arrogance at the gypsy boy. “Get this beast off of me!” He moaned.

The other guard, having regained his posture, revealed a sharpened dirk out of his boot heel. “I’ll teach you a lesson, peasant!” The fat one growled.

Before he could even blink, Phoebe's apologetic gesture grew into a thin and confident smile as she tossed the fold of her cloak aside to reveal the golden breastplate and removed a long sword from the scabbard at her waist. “You were saying, Lieutenant?” She flashed a sarcastic grin at the large man, whose eyes grew large in recognition.

“Ca-ca-captain!” The guard stuttered and slammed his hand to his head, cursing wildly as said hand hit the metal disk that sufficed for a helmet. “At your service.” He continued, beads of sweat beginning to drip down his face as the woman lowered her sword, the blade slicing off one half of the fallen guards mustache.

“I understand you’re very interested in the boy, but,” Pheobe cracked a warm smile. “Palace of Justice, gentlemen?” She stooped down to the other guard, who gulped from beneath Hippolyte.     

In all of fifteen seconds, the guards were leading the captain onward to the Palace.

But as the captain walked behind the guards, he noticed something. Whether or not it was him, she couldn’t be sure, but the cloaked figure with the same hat slumped against a building sure seemed familiar. It was a clever disguise, the goats grey bread peeking from the shade of the article of cloth. Phoebe picked up the coins that were left by the gypsy, and dropped them into the hat before walking along with the guards to her meeting with the infamous Judge Frollo.

* * *

 

Beneath the near infinite halls of the basement of the Palace of Justice; the sounds of scurrying rats and crying people could be heard over the dripping of the damp stone walls. Phoebe felt rather on edge for this meeting, the atmosphere not exactly helping her case. She was a very brave and strong headed person, but for some sad reason, basements and catacombs made her stomach do flips.

The stench was hardly anything to be acclaimed, the air reeking of mildew and rot; whether that rot was from the wooden floors above or the bodies locked up in their long abandoned cells she wasn’t sure of, but hoped she wouldn’t be visiting this place anytime in the near future; be it for discipline or visiting.

As she rounded another corner, another sound greeted her ears. Loud screams; that of a man’s, and the sound of whipping leather strands across weakened flesh. Along with that sound came a glow from around the wall, a bright, kiln orange glow. The captain also felt a noticeable difference in the temperature, the air becoming comfortably warm; despite the obvious torture coming from the area.       

“Stop.” Came a dark voice from in front of the light. “Ease up.” It said.

Phoebe rounded the corner despite her discomfort, hiding the look on her face until she got an eyeful of the judge. The man not ten feet from her was tall, dressed in customary violet and black robes and a goofy looking triangular hat with a red satin ribbon flowing down to the lower back of the judge. He had his pinched and soured face turned away from the captain and at the man inflicting the torture on the man inside.

“Up?” The torturer replied and wrinkled his nose at his boss.

“Wait between lashes. Otherwise the old sting will dull into the new.” The man nodded and went back into the kiln-like room with a deviously happy grin on his face.

The judge turned, and Phoebe fought to hold back her shock. “Ah, so this is the valiant captain Phoebe, home from the wars!”

“You’re a woman?” Was the first thing out of her mouth; and the captain immediately regretted her words at the cynical, deathly cold glare the old woman gave her. Her shock was now suppressed into a hard and waiting stare, her thin lips pressed into a flat line as if awaiting orders.

The judge scoffed and began a confident stride around the other woman, obviously unimpressed. “Your reputation precedes you, dear. I however, do not expect this kind of observation in the future. Am I understood?” She said in a dark and threatening voice that made the captain’s insides tremble.

“Yes, Ma’am. It will not happen again.” The captain responded.

“Good. I expect nothing but the best from a hero such as yourself. You once defeated an entire English army with a troop of fifty, should I be correct.” Frollo rounded once more, Phoebe remained silent despite the fact that she had taken out a Liegen army with a troop of seventy, but she knew better than to correct her higher ups; especially one this ruthless.        

Instead, “Yes, Ma’am. And you shall have it. I guarantee it.”     

“Yes,” The judge leaned in a bit as if inspecting her for dust. “You see, my last Captain of the Guard was,” She paused and clasped her hands. “A bit of a disappointment to me.” Frollo practically hissed just as the sound of the whip returned, and a terrible, bloodcurdling scream came from the archway in front of the pair. Phoebe figured that the judge needn’t say more. It was obvious where that captain was now.

“Now,” The woman began to stroll from the hall to a door the captain had not noticed before. “Outside.” She said and pulled the iron latch on the door to reveal a set of winding steps that led to a balcony. It was easy for the captain despite the plates of her armor weighing more than Hippolyte.

The side passage to the Palace of Justice looked out over the same street corner that Phoebe had seen the gypsy boy; wondering how on earth she had been that close to it and not realizing it. The passage itself was more of a balcony, the elegant Gothic of the railing, columns, roof; attracting attention away from the darkness that seemed to surround the building itself. The judge strolled along before stopping at the sound of a chalumeau and grimacing at the music it made.

“You’ve come to Paris in her darkest hour, Captain.” The judge stated matter-of-factly. “It will take a firm hand to save the weak minded from being so easily misled.” She pursed her lips together in a scornful glare down at the streets below.

This intrigued Phoebe. “Misled, Ma’am?” She asked following the judge's gaze down to the road; not seeing any signs of trouble she needed to deal with.

“Look at them, Captain.” The judge sighed and lowered a wrinkled arm to the road to indicate a corner where there were people gathering. “Gypsies.”

On the cobblestone road, Phoebe felt a glint of recognition at the same gypsy boy with tambourine in hand, the raven haired girl playing the reed instrument once more as they both had been before the guards showed up. Only this time with a fairly large amount of people and coins involved. Gold clattered to the street like rain, the little white goat prancing around with the hat in his teeth in a failed effort to catch them all.                 

Phoebe raised a thin, golden eyebrow. Frollo seemed to notice, and continued. “The gypsies live outside the normal order. Their heathen ways inflame the commoners lowest instincts.” She continued to glare at the two gypsies as if they were maggots she had found crawling in her cheese. “And they must be stopped.” The judge turned to face the younger woman and clasped her hand into a fist with a threatening glow in her grey, soulless eyes.  

The captain raised her eyebrow farther, her disbelief easily visible. “I was brought from the wars,” She began to think of the horrible conditions for the prisoners of war and the men that were captured, the visions of what the woman had seen making the torture of the last Captain of the Guard looking like the prick of a pin. “To capture fortune tellers and palm readers?” She almost laughed at the idea of something so mundane when she was needed elsewhere.

“The real war, captain,” The judge refused to lower her gaze. “Is what you see before you.” She continued with wisdom.

“For over twenty years I have been;” Frollo paused to think of the right words. “Taking care, of the gypsies.” Her finger drifted down to the surface of the railing, her spindly fingers trailing along the decorative flat, gray, stone.

Three little black beetles crawled along the same surface. “One,” The elder squished the closest beetle beneath her ring finger. “By,” Her finger finger flattened the next one. “One.” Her thumb smashed the final beetle and grinding it into the rough stone with hate.

“And yet, for all my success,” Her hands clasped around the decorative stone plate. “they have thrived.” Frollo lifted the stone from the railing to reveal what could have been hundreds upon hundreds of the very same beetle resting beneath the decor.

“I believe they have a safe haven within the very walls of this city; a nest if you will. They call it the ‘Court of Miracles.’” The pious woman continued in a tone that suggested she knew this ‘Court of Miracles’ existed for a fact. Phoebe removed her helmet; her blonde hair spilling down in a well kept ponytail that went to the lower half of her back.

“What are we going to do about it, Ma’am?”   

At this, the judge’s face hardened and with a swift movement of her hands, she slammed the stone back into its groove; a loud crunch coming from the death of the hundreds of beetles that were still within the gap.

“You make your point quite vividly, Ma’am.” Phoebe remained unmoved; despite the fact that she knew exactly what her boss's point was.

“You know, I like you, Captain. Shall we?” The judge showed not a hint of irritation at her minions indifference right as a series of loud cheers came from the street below; indicating the beginning of the Feast of Fools.

“Ugh.” She suddenly grimaced. “Duty calls.” She started to walk off before turning to Phoebe. “Have you ever experienced a peasant festival, my dear?”

The question seemed so innocuous and out of the blue. In truth, the young woman remembered exactly what a peasant festival was like; having been in attendance at the same festival since she was four with her parents up until she was sent off to war.

“Yes, Ma’am.” She answered.

 **  
** The judge seemed taken aback, but the slight shock faded rather quickly into a knowing gaze. “Well then, you should know what to do.” She nodded and walked off with the captain trailing behind, off to the Feast of Fools.

 


	5. Shall Be the Queen of Fools

Quasimoda felt an overwhelming feeling of anxiety and wonder wash over her as her fingers clasped around the decorative stone pillars that kept her suspended high above the side streets of Paris, which, at the moment, were buckled with foot traffic and the occasional guards horse. Her eyes grew wider with every foot she repelled down, the sights and sounds of the feast much more vibrant than she had ever remembered them being from her box seat high above. Her ginger hair was tucked behind a thick cloak the did its job well, shielding the young woman from not only the sun, but from shock and awe of the townspeople should they see her. It was a risk Quasimoda didn’t want to take, but at the moment, Harriet’s plan, although hairbrained, was her only chance until… well… she honestly didn’t know. Her life expectancy with her condition hadn’t exactly been spelled out in gold lettering, but from the heavy limb and constant exhaustion, Quasimoda could guess she wouldn’t be able to do this next year, should the plagues come back. It was pessimistic, but life with her mistress had taught her only so.

 

Blaring music echoed across the tight dirt roads and alleys, signaling the festival was to begin in less than a minute. The hunchback slid down another column behind the stone cold statue of St. Peter, her vision catching the crowds as they surged to make way for a line of men dressed in heavy black robes. Not recognizing this, she peered out a little farther, daring herself to stick her head out farther into view. Also surprising was the beginning of a chorus from the fair-goers. She watched in awed silence as the men came into the square. The young woman cast a solemn look up to the top rail, where the gargoyles waved cheerfully at her, Lorenzo seeming to say something that was drowned out by the roar of the crowds. She nodded, and slinked down the next column to a cornerstone of the cathedral that tethered a line of colorful flags to a pole set around the breech in the crowd.

 

With a deep breath, she grabbed held and zipped along the line, her calloused hands not even registering the burning pain that would’ve afflicted many of those who attempted the same feat. Her flight having gone unnoticed, she curled around the wooden post, tucking a length of ginger bangs back behind the safety of the cloak. Unfortunately, the peasants and gypsies hadn’t thought much to tie the rope very securely to take on a gentle breeze, much less a twenty year old bell ringer. Quasimoda only realized her possibly fatal mistake as the rope began to unfurl, sending her flying over the heads of thousands and directly into the center where the dark line of men were gathering in some kind of formation. With all her might she tugged at the brim of the cloak, hoping it hadn’t revealed anything as the lines of the chorus became more clear.

 

 _“Close the churches and the schools, it’s a day for breaking rules! Come and join the feast of…”_    

 

Quasimoda looked on as the head of the black group threw off the billowing robes, revealing not only that they possessed bright and colorful clothing, but that they were all women. What looked like the ringleader was the thinnest girl the hunchback had seen in her life, the size equating to that of the post behind her. She had raven black hair pinned in a loose and sloppy ponytail, wisps of it coming out at odd places. Her attire was, at first glance, no less different than the other young women, but the hunchback easily noted that her clothes were much more like that of an old king’s  jester. Goldenrod yellow and admiral blue in crazy geometric patterns, bells hanging off every loose end; including on the tips of her shoes. On her head was a hat with a ginormous feather flume a shade of mauve so bright it made Quasimoda blink a few times to adjust to it. But the strangest detail was to her face, a strange mask with a pointed nose that covered only her eyes and cheeks that pinpointed the shine in her pupils.

 

The hunchback hadn’t even realized she’d shouted something until her arm was roped around the leaders, the girl spinning her in a dosey-do before leaping like a frog to a pole and spinning round it while laughing hysterically.

 

 _“Once a year, we throw a party here in town!”_ She sang and looked down at a puddle beneath her.

 

 _“Once a year, we turn all Paris upside down! Ev’ry man’s a king and ev’ry king’s a clown!”_  She remarked to a man who’d designed a costume to flip from king to joker before realizing the hunchback had gotten away from her, and smiled devilishly at the thought of getting her back into the limelight, even if she didn’t want to be there.

 

Of course Celestine had recognized the bell ringer beneath a cloak, and frankly was slightly insulted that Quasimoda hadn’t come up with a better disguise. It was a festival that involved costumes, for heaven's sake. In the gypsies eyes it was the biggest and best part of the whole party. But just because Quasimoda failed at hiding herself from the girl wasn’t that bothersome in the grand scheme. Her mission was making sure the deformed woman actually enjoyed herself at the feast instead of shrinking back into the crowds, and that meant bringing the action to her. It made Celestine feel near saintly and she wasn’t about to miss the chance.

 

 _“Once again, it’s topsy turvy day!”_ She sang and threw herself into a cartwheel to a huge bouquet of balloons the girl had taken to hiding behind.

 

 _“It’s a day the devil in us gets released,”_ She grabbed a pair of scissors and cuts the strings of the balloons, freeing them to float high into the sky as the hunchback scrambled for another place to hide, not even realizing it was a caravan for puppet shows, and Clopine had opened the curtain to begin her next line.

 

Quasimoda shrunk back in terror as the children giggled at the performance Celestine put on, pulling the hunchback into view and hitting her with a hand puppet stylized in a cruel vision of her Mistress.

 

 _“It’s a day we mock the judge and shock the priest, ev’rything is topsy turvy at the Feast of Fools!”_ She winked at the hunchback as Quasimoda shrieked and tried once more to cover her face, realizing the gypsy girl somehow knew who she was. She limped out of the tent but was stopped in shock at the odd scenes happening before her as the crowd seemed to pick up a chorus.

 

“Topsy turvy!” The crowd chanted at the girl stared at three men being walked by their dogs. _“Ev’rything is upsy daisy!”_ Clopine seemed to remind her.

 

“Upsy daisy!” The crowd chanted again as the hunchback felt dwarfed by the tall and absurd masks the people of Paris had constructed. _“Everyone is acting crazy!”_ She giggled as Quasimoda began to run until she found a tiny tent and was soon led out in a group of women in sultry dresses performing the cancan.

 

 _“Dross is gold and weeds are a bouquet! That’s the way on topsy turvy day!”_ She led the end of the cancan as Quasimoda was limp between the enthusiastic women's shoulders. As the line disappeared into an impossibly small tent not at all unlike the last one, the hunchback was beginning to doubt her friends plan would go well. So far, it was failing miserably and she felt perfectly fine going back to live her life in silence after this whole mess ended, hopefully a little wiser on the ways in this festival. It was all too overwhelming for someone who had spent their life in total isolation.

 

Unfortunately for her, the women quickly let go of her beefy arms and the girl was sent tumbling out of the opposite end of the tent, flailing wildly to regain her balance as the sound of tearing fabric entered her ears. In seconds, she was somersaulting backwards through the pale orange fabric of another tent, her lower back connecting with a stool that had been placed right where she had fallen. She involuntarily let of a terrified shout as she grabbed for something to stop her rolling, the feeling of satin rubbing her calloused fingers. Quasimoda realized it hadn’t worked a second too late and was buried in the fabric as an alarmed voice rose up.

 

“Hey! What do you think you’re-” The young man seemed to pause for a moment as the hunchback stirred, a little dizzy.

 

“Wait, are you alright?” His irritation melted into concern as Quasimoda felt the urge to leave immediately, tugging at the satin before finding she couldn’t get a grip on the soft material.

 

“I-I-I-I’m so sorry, I thought-” She tossed the fabric over her head and grabbed tight to the hood of her cloak, desperate to avoid being seen. “I’m so sorry!” She said again as the teenage boy looked down at her, slightly confused.

 

“You’re not hurt, are you?” He asked, taking a step forward and lifted a hand cautiously as a goat bleated at his side. The hunchback swerved away, struggling to stand up without removing her iron grip on the cloak. When she didn’t immediately respond, unsure if she was hurt or just that clumsy, the young man leaned in closer.

 

“Here, let’s see.” He guided her hands slowly away from the rim of the cloak as she pleaded desperately not to look. He didn’t seem to notice, and she found herself staring into the most beautiful eyes of her life.

 

The young man in front of her looked old enough to be her age, perhaps younger than that, thick raven locks forming a messy bush around the crown of his head. His skin was darker, a shade of tawny that was even around his bare chest and arms. He was rather slender, but also very muscular. His features were fair, but slowly becoming more pronounced the longer Quasimoda looked. He had angst glowing behind the shining emerald irises that seemed to instantly melt away into relief.

 

“There.” He nodded slightly at the lack of any scratches or blood, despite the fact that she was hideous. This shocked Quasimoda so much she almost laughed.

 

“See? No harm done.” He smiled down at the hunchback as her face fell into a goofy grin, her own eyes staring at him like some kind of Greek statue. With a little pull, she was standing again, and the boy led her over to the exit of the tent.

 

“Just try to be a little more careful next time, okay?” He chuckled lightly at her and set a hand on her back as Quasimoda nodded, her face suddenly having gone numb as the grin began to grow wider. She failed to notice the hood of her cloak was down, ginger locks spilling over the black rim that seemed to shine in the light that filtered through the tent.

 

“I will.” She replied dreamily as the handsome man opened the flap that served as the other opening to the tent aside from what the hunchback had created. The warm sunlight reached her face as she tucked the hood of the cloak back up, the young man watching her from behind. She turned to face him as shock began to set in.

 

He had seen her and hadn’t even screamed. She had more or less been worried she’d have shield herself from being struck out of terror. But when he lifted the rim of the cloak back, he hadn’t even frowned. He’d just smiled. At her. She was sighing longingly at the wonderful teenager. She was so infatuated by his eyes she hadn’t even heard the compliment he’d given her.

 

Of course, while he’d said ‘great mask’, Quasimoda hadn’t heard that. But it was obvious he had been complimenting her on something, so she was left for a moment to wonder what that something was, the hunchback felt her self esteem suddenly building, despite her mistresses warnings and words. If that one man hadn’t even batted an eyelash at her deformities, what else could that mean?

 

* * *

 

Phoebe felt higher than the rest of the world as she directed her soldiers to patrol the square, her position directly next to the judge’s overly elaborate tent where she strolled upon the wooden dais constructed pre festival. Her eyes were scrunched shut tight, as if her scowl made her seem higher and more important than she already was.

 

“Come one, come all!” Clopine announced as the next part of the festival was to begin. “Come one, come all!” She did a sweeping gesture around the feast, seeming to end at a large stage elevated farther up than Frollo’s that was swathed in bright red curtains patterned with moons and stars; gypsy craft, no doubt. The crows was beginning to vibrate with anticipation as Clopine suddenly appeared at Frollo’s side, her eyes encouraging the judge.

 

“Hurry, hurry, here’s your chance! See the mystery and romance,” She nudged the elder lightly with her elbow and a wink. In an instant she was back on the larger stage, where the majority of the townspeople had gathered.

 

“Come one, come all! See the finest boy in France, make an entrance to entrance!” She chuckled and grabbed a handful of something from a pouch on her skirt.

 

“Dance, Monsieur Esmerald….” She held her hand high as her voice wavered for a moment. “Dance!” She cheered and threw her gloved fist down, magenta dust swirling around her like a storm until she disappeared entirely. And in her place was the same young gypsy she had saved appeared on the stage before her, his hand clasped around tambourine as he began to follow the girl's orders, and danced.

 

He was shirtless, something that was already captivating most of the female audience with swoons and wonderful cheering from the men. As for the judge, she couldn’t have been more different, falling back in her chair with the rudest glare Phoebe had the displeasure of seeing, but her attention was quickly shifting to the handsome teenager. His attire was hardly riske, per say, but it was certainly sensual. He was barefoot as usual, his golden labret and anklet shining in the sunlight. His harem pants were a shade of scarlet, a length of lilac chiffon tied around his waist that were loosely bound to his wrists. Although she suspected it would have impeded his gymnastic abilities, she was sorely mistaken as the gypsy boy did cartwheels, turns, and elaborate steps she had only seen practiced aristocrats do. It was obviously burlesque, even if it was a man doing it, and that proved no less effective at turning the captain and most of the audience on.

 

“Look at that disgusting display.” Judge Frollo growled from her throne.

 

“Yes Ma’am.” Phoebe lifted the brim of her golden helmet, still captivated by the handsome gypsy as he nearly flew over two tables, seeing that the judge wasn’t enjoying his performance. Monsieur Esmerald was quickly on her side, the length of purple chiffon wrapped around her neck and pulling her closer to his playful grin. On her wrinkled face was a horrified gaze Pheobe had never seen or expected to have seen as the gypsy boy kissed her full on the lips and pranced of the booth, letting go of the lilac noose as Frollo stared at him like the rest of the city, shocked at his amount of risk. That alone deserved a gold medal.

 

He was back at center stage, performing spin after spin as he fell into a split and winked at a group of women, nearly all of whom fawned over who the wink was meant for. And with a final skip, he grabbed a pike from one of the guards and threw it ahead like a spear. It planted itself in the center of the stage as he leaped onto the top end, spinning round until the very end with a wanton grin at the crowd as he threw his head back, jangling the tambourine as Celestine practically had to use a post to keep the hundreds of women from swarming him. Gold coins fell like a downpour as Monsieur Esmerald took a bow, a familiar looking goat sweeping them up with his tail as the captain flipped a coin to the stage, a goofy smile on her face.

 

* * *

 

 

“And now ladies and gentlemen, the piece de resistance!” The gypsy girl clapped her hands as the handsome performer left the stage, the goat following suit with as much gold as it could carry in the little plum purple hat. Quasimoda felt herself clapping at the display, knowing she would never be able to do so in the presence of her Mistress. The hunchback truly felt like she was enjoying herself now that there was at least one person that wasn’t ashamed of her appearance.

 

 _“Here it is, the moment you’ve been waiting for!”_ The girl entered song again as Quasimoda wondered what it was they were waiting for. She usually hadn’t watched to this point, the eleven o’clock bells calling her name around this very hour. The only thing she could recall from this far in was someone being carted around the streets like a hero. It sounded interesting, but her curiosity had dulled rather fast and she often went back to whittling at that point until they announced the next event, Harry and Victoria’s laughter echoing on through the bell towers until the hunchback figured it was over.

 

 _“Here it is, you know exactly what’s in store!”_ Clopine rubbed her gloved hands wickedly as a few people around the deformed woman chuckled darkly.

_“Now’s the time we laugh until our sides get sore, now’s the time we crown The King of Fools!”_  She sang and gestured playfully to somewhere in the audience.

 

“You lovely people remember last years king?” She laughed as Quasimoda turned her head to where she was gesturing, seeing a drunken fool in a cart that was hoisted above the audience, his gaze stoic as the crowd cheered on.

 

 _“So make a face that’s horrible and frightening!”_ The leader made a face to the crowd as if the show an example. _“Make a face as gruesome as a gargoyle's wing!”_

 

 _“For the face that’s ugliest will be the King of Fools!”_ She helped a few of the men onto the stage all wearing grotesque masks that hid their real faces. “Why?” She questioned the spectators.

 

“Topsy turvy!” They crooned.

 

 _“Ugly folks, forget your shyness!”_ She tempted as Quasimoda saw a tawny hand reach out to her, the gypsy boy nodding at her. She grabbed hold softly, climbing onto the stage as the cloak fell off of her, revealing her pale features to the bright sunlight.  

 

“Upsy daisy!” They responded.

 

“You could soon be called your highness!” The girl cheered.

 

 _“Put your foulest features on display! Be the king,”_ Celestine gestured to Quasimoda as Monsieur Esmerald instructed her to smile. _“Or_ queen _of this great day!”_

 

The gypsy then strolled over to the end of the line, where twelve other men were more than willing to make a face for a chance at the title. Clopine pranced over to the opposite end with him as he tore the first mask off of the man, his jaw tight as he attempted a face. The boos of the townspeople echoed in the square as the little goat knocked the man off the stage and into a mud puddle, indicating he just wasn’t bad enough to deserve the title. The line continued as the goat knocked more and more people off the stage, the crowd jeering them until they reached the hunchback.

 

Her eyes closed, she felt the boy's hands grab at her face, giving it a tug. She opened her eyes at he suddenly let go and gasped at the apparent fact that she wasn’t wearing a mask. She then realized if he hadn’t known it was her face, then what must he think of her now? Looking down at the ogling crowd as they gasped and screamed, Quasimoda only then realized how stupid she’d been. Why had she ever thought they would just accept her into society for who she was? The only reason no one had screamed and cried immediately was because they thought she was wearing a mask. And now they knew she existed with that deformity, they knew where she lived. The embarrassment was so crushing she lifted her large hands to cover her face. Clopine’s voice rang in her ears.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, don’t panic! After all, we asked for the ugliest face in Paris!” She gestured to Quasimoda, who slowly lifted her hands from her face at the realization that it was no beauty pageant.

 

“And here she is! Our Queen of Fools! That’s a new one, eh?” She nodded at the crowd as they looked dumbfounded before they all began to smile at the hunched young woman.

 

“Quasimoda! The Hunchback of Notre Dame!” She cheered and indicated the cathedral behind them. Quasimoda suddenly felt a crown being lowered onto her head as the populace of Paris surged towards her, lifting her high above like a hero for all to see, Clopine stepping ahead like a royal announcer, marching in tune with the crowd as they sang.

 

 _“Once a year, we throw a party here in town!”_ They all sang as Clopine grabbed a stilt from a walker, using it as a baton.

 

 _“Once a year, we turn all Paris upside down!”_ The crowd threw last years king from his throne, dumping the young woman in his place as the performers took to carrying the her ahead with the leader emarking at what a queen she was.

 

 _“Once a year, the ugliest can wear a crown!”_ They marched past a group of men who catcalled to Quasimoda, a smile beginning to blossom on her features.

 

 _“Once a year, on topsy turvy day!”_ They finished as the hunchback saw her mistress and waved to her, the elder still staring shocked as ever at the turn of events. Clopine suddenly helped out of her throne and draped a magenta cape over her back as Quasimoda realized she was standing on a platform of some kind, too busy smiling at the crowd that were for one day, her subjects to reign over. It was both liberating and a most wonderful feeling as the leader handed her a scepter with a joker's cap on its tip.

 

 _“Once a year, we do the things that we deplore, on the other three hundred and sixty four,”_ The hunched young woman felt tears running down her cheeks as the crowds cheered her on.

 

 _“Once a year, we love to drop in where the beer is never stoppin, for the chance to pop some popinjay! And crown a queen who’ll put the ‘top’ in topsy turvy day!”_ The cheering shifted to her name as an explosion of confetti flew about the square. The citizens were treating her better than the real queen at this rate, and were also throwing flowers at her. She caught one with her free hand and sniffed it lightly, as if to feel more graceful and forget for a moment that she was hideous when other people didn’t. She felt on top of the world.

 

That was, until a tomato flew from the gloved hand of a guard and hit her square in the face. It shocked her as much as it did everyone else, the juice drying quickly on her ginger hair as the skin fell to the platform. Her smile faded into a look of terror at her hand, as if the magic of the crowd was gone. Another one flew from a second soldier, who remarked: “Long live her majesty!” With mocking laughter.

 

Suddenly a hail of produce was raining down on the once glorified queen, the laughter of the crowds echoing in her ears as she slipped on the juice of a tomato and fell onto her back; the cheers replaced by the terrible sound of their laughter in her misfortune. She attempted to stand and run back to her sanctuary when a noose flew to her neck, choking her as her struggled to break free. Again Quasimoda fell as another rope tied her scepter wielding hand in place, the symbols of her acceptance falling to the ground as she screamed. More rope flew over her, binding her to what the hunchback realized was a flogging post. She struggled to break the rope but found she couldn’t two of the rioting townspeople tying the many ropes to the cranks of the wheel and spinning the young woman round and round, the laughter of the Parisians ringing in her ears like the toll of the bells, reminding her she couldn’t be accepted for who she was, even as the Queen of Fools. The bitter irony of it was enough to make her sick as her stomach churned, object after object striking her dizzying body.

 

“Mistress!” She cried. “Please!” She begged as she was spun away towards the cathedral and back again. What she saw was the judge snorting and turning away, refusing to even look her adopted daughter in the eyes for a refusal. With that, Quasmoda squeezed her eyes shut and let the torment continue. It was a lesson well deserved.

  
But it didn’t continue for very long. The citizens of Paris soon fell silent as a young man made his way onto the platform where the young hunchback was bound.


	6. Behind These Windows and These Parapets

A dark shadow loomed over the platform where Quasimoda was bound, it’s slender frame shading only a portion of the large woman’s overall size. The hunchback struggled to look up, fear and anxiety building up within her. If the crowd had stopped cheering, that likely meant this person was here to finally put her out of her misery. Despite how morbid the concept seemed, at the moment, the hunchback was rather grateful someone was willing to end the suffering she’d just endured when her mistress had neglected to do so. But a familiar voice sounded on the platform, and the former Queen of Fools felt as if her title had been bestowed upon her once more.

 

The gypsy boy was looking down at her sorrowful figure, an indiscernible look on his face. For a moment he blocked the blinding sun and seemed to shine like a holy saint, the sun caught in his raven hair. Quasimoda felt the sudden urge to get away from him. She didn’t belong near such a perfect effigy of god. She was deformed. He wasn’t. He was a true saint and she was the devil's handmaiden. But why was he up here? He didn’t have a weapon; at least, not that she could see.   

 

Quasimoda struggled to pull at the ropes that bound her as the teenager crouched down to her height ever so slightly, the tail of his scarf tucked lightly between his fingers as the noon sun shined and cast golden shadows from the many bangles attached to its ends. Her eyes squeezed shut as whatever strength remained left her on wings. God was stopping her from escaping a fate that was more or less twenty years overdue.

 

“Don’t be frightened.” His voice was soft, wisp-like, as if he was trying to soothe a skittish horse.

 

Quasimoda was still quivering as her urge to flee collapsed like a flimsy tent, leaving her body to practically crumple down to the platform, the ropes looser than before. “I’m sorry.” He sighed and untied the scarf from his waist, trailing it through his scarred hands.

 

“This wasn’t supposed to happen.” The young adolescent deadpanned and focused on the hunchback, using the edge of the long purple fabric length to clean the splatter of vegetable blood from her hair and cheek. A soft and understanding smile ran over the both of them, a blush overtaking the young woman at the alarming amount of sympathy. Silence prevailed as though the shock of the crowd was contagious.

 

At the moment Quasimoda was more confused than she’d ever been in her life. She had been suffering, like she’d been told she would be by Frollo. But now there was mercy and forgiveness that didn’t even come in the form of Christianity. It left her feeling overwhelmingly befuddled to the point where she wondered if she was simply passed out from dizziness and this was just a hallucination brought on as a result. Regardless, she was grateful for whatever she could get at this point. Because Frollo had obviously failed to show her the sympathy now bestowed upon her by someone she was supposed to never trust.    

 

The silence was broken by the judge’s painfully aggressive tone. “You!” She pointed a bony finger at the platform. “Gypsy! Get down from there at once!” The judge seemed to seeth in the brief silence that followed before the young man's voice magnified so that the judge could hear his response.

 

“Of course you honor.” He gave a nod and stood up, leaving his scarf draped around the hunchback like a blanket. “Just as soon as I free this poor girl.” His gaze turned back to Quasimoda.

 

Frollo’s response was swift and blunt. “Get down, boy.”

 

At this the gypsies eyes darkened for a moment, the sun casting a glow from his emerald irises that reflected in the glint of a dagger he’d suddenly removed from a pocket in his white poet's shirt. With a swift movement of his hand the blade sliced through the knot holding the deformed woman down. The instantaneous joy Quasimoda felt was replaced by a wave of fear at the realization that the gypsy was going to get much more than he bargained for. She had witnessed her mistresses pursuits; secondhand, of course, but it was obvious that this gypsy wouldn’t be leaving here a free man.

 

“You dare defy me?” The judge stood up from her throne, the wrinkles in her face multiplying with her anger.

 

“You mistreat a woman simply because of her physical appearance, yet the fools in your gaurd are worthy of the same punishments. Your methods of justice are anything but just. My own people have been the grit beneath your boots ever since you came into power!” His voice began a slow climb in volume. “Am I worthy of discrimination simply because of my own skin?”

 

“ _Silence!_ ” The elder yelled across the square.

 

“ _Justice!_ ” The gypsy threw his knife wielding arm high as the sun glinted of the worn blade like a torch.

 

The gasps and murmurs of the Parisians began as the young man released a huff and put his knife away, and helped a shaking Quasimoda to her feet. She attempted to say something but was at a loss. His attention was snapped away from the hunchback when the judge spoke once more.

 

“Mark my words, boy. You will pay for this injustice!” She pointed a bony finger at him, the garish rings glinting in the light. The irony was shocking.

 

“Then it would appear we’ve crowned the wrong Queen of Fools.” He gave a cunning bow with a defiant sneer. His hand clasped around the plush of Quasimoda’s crown and tore it from her head. “The only fool I can see, is you!”

 

With that he tossed the crown across the cobblestone square, the laughter of the village echoing off the walls and alleys. It landed with a small squeak only a foot from the judge, the sound giving the heir that it too was laughing it Frollo. Her face was twisted with rage as she gave the order to arrest the gypsy. The crowds joy faded quickly as the guards reared their horses through them to the flogging platform, where the gypsy waited with his arms crossed. As they pulled to a stop, he leaned his left elbow on his right arm and did a quiet count.

 

“Alright, alright. So there are twelve of you and one of me.” A smile crept across his face. “Captian, you humor me! I’d think you’d have more than twelve policing a city of this size!” He chuckled mirthfully as Phoebe flushed ever so slightly at her perfectly fine number of guards.

 

“I’m waiting, men.” Frollo growled and began drumming her fingers in the wooden arm of her throne.

 

“Oh, do pardon me your honor. I forgot. You’re the real master behind these puppets.” He raised an eyebrow and threw his hand to the side as if the indicate the scowling guards. The boy then gently eased his scarf from the young hunchback, a red powder falling like snow from the tips as the hollow pocket was revealed. With a swift motion the stage exploded in a haze of red smoke that made two horses scatter and everyone attending the festival the jump at the flash. In the seconds that followed the dust cleared, and the gypsy boy was nowhere to be seen.

 

“Witchcraft,” Frollo whispered, her eyes growing wide at such a sight.

 

“Up here fellas!” A voice rang in the silence, the crowd turning to see the gypsy on the gallows, his position high above the people as he gave a cheesy smile and a wink directed at Frollo, who raised an arm up instinctively as though the boy could now shoot lightning from his eyes.

 

“Get him!” She shouted weakly and waved a hand about, the people laughing at the judges display of cowardice that even Quasimoda found slightly entertaining. The guards began to climb up the gallows and the boy shot them a triumphant grin and dove off the gallows, the hords of people catching and carrying him and his goat off across the square as he waved to them. The guards then jumped off the platform, as if assuming the crowd would catch them when everyone beneath the tin plated demons took an instinctive step back, leaving them to fall right to the ground with a groan.

 

With a graceful flip, the gypsy landed on his feet before three guards began to chase after him, the sudden flush to his features barely noticeable as he grabbed held of a tall cage, tearing it from its weakened and worn chain. With a quick jump, he was balancing along the bars of the cage as it rolled through the square, the guards quickly falling behind. One of the stilt-walkers took advantage of this and kicked the four guards away as easily as a pile of marbles. The gypsies resourcefulness was short lived as the rusty cage collapsed from a rather large divot in the cobblestones.

 

Despite this, Esmerald kept his footing, managing to get to the center of the festival before stopping, a guard’s horse keeping him from going forward, another closing in from behind. A beautifully mischievous grin crossed his tawny features as he folded his hands behind him and closed his green eyes, the two horses coming closer and closer until he nimbly stepped to the side. The guards horses realizing the danger a second before throwing their riders to collide with one another, their saucer like hats flying in different directions as the men fell and slumped, out cold.

 

“What a-” Phoebe stared at the chaos, barely ducking the flying helmet that would’ve easily decapitated her had she not moved.

 

The boy continued his hearty sprint, another horseman coming directly at him, dirk bared in gruesome anticipation. The goat acting as a small booster, he allowed his young master to hop onto his back for a split second, grabbing the oversized pants of a stiltwalker and tugging them into the oncoming guard. The man collided into the colorfully patterned fabric before realizing his mistake a moment too late. The fabric stretched  as his horse charged forward, building up momentum until the guard was slingshot from his horse and far off from the square, his shouts of terror inspiring much merriment from the crowds as his saucer-like helmet landed with a spin on the gypsies head. Realizing the cheers he was getting, the boy removed the hat and took a bow as if he were an actor of a Shakespeare play.

 

The roar of the Parisians only intensified before hushing as the final two horsemen charged forth, Esmerald racing across the square in the direction of Frollo's booth. For a moment it looked truly insane, the boy running between two chubby rocks and a hard, hard place. But instead of crashing, the teenager took advantage of one of the tables he’d cartwheeled across, vaulting himself and his goat in such a show of acrobatics Quasimoda wondered how he’d possibly done it with such flair. The horseman took a pole one of the stilt walkers dropped for them, but only realized they were holding it when they slammed into the canvas of Frollo’s tent, the pious woman shrieking like a banshee as the dark fabric buried her, the gypsy boy managing to land on a tent behind the mess of black and purple with no signs of injury.

 

He did another bow before taking a swath of burgundy fabric, wrapping himself and the goat in its embrace as dark clouds began to blot out the sun. With a wink to the crowd, he spun gracefully, the fabric thinning to its original shape as the boy and his goat seemingly vanished. A gasp came from the audience as a stilt walker lifted the cloth to show that it was just that, and more cheers came from the parisians.

 

They quickly died like a snuffed candle as distant sounds of awe came from the people like trails of smoke in realization that the judge wasn’t harmed, and looked as if she would arrest the first person caught making a sound. Her hat was nowhere to be seen, the grey hair disheveled from her tents collapse. The crowd parted like the Red Sea as her murderous gaze focused on the hunchback, who cowered from her stance like a bedraggled bird as rain began to patter down on the infamous Festival of Fools.

 

On her horse once more, the judge gave an order that rang throughout the square as Phoebe gave the words to her remaining men. “Find the gypsy boy and do not harm him.” She paused as if to say _“Even if the mood strikes you.”_                  

 

Though she was no longer bound to the platform, Quasimoda knew that she could not run even if she wanted to. There were guards everywhere, her mistress was riding towards her, albeit slowly, and even if she wasn’t cursed with a limp, where would she run that Frollo wouldn’t eventually find her? It was brutally painful to simply stand there and attempt to pull up the rags of her tunic, simply waiting as her mistress and her horse slowly trotted towards her, as if the prolong her misery on purpose.

 

As the features of Frollo’s no doubt permanent and withering scowl became more prominent in the darkness of the rainclouds, the hunchback felt herself crying again, wishing the tears were disguised by the fat drops of rain the soothed the burns on her back and arms. As her hateful grey eyes focused on Quasimoda; bored deep into her deformed skin in disappointment and anger, the young woman found the meek voice she welcomed.

 

“I-I’m sorry, Mistress.” She sniffed, the urge to look away from the pure darkness losing as the judges bony fingers brought her gaze to face her. “I will never disobey you again…” She shook her head at the sickening realization.

 

“You were right. About everything. And I know now where I belong.” Her voice cracked in a mixture of unbearable sadness and embarrassment, the slowly dwindling crowd of Parisians staring at the new entertainment as they had for her coronation, dethroning, and humiliation. The third act seemed to be long-going and by far the most popular. For a moment Quasimoda wondered if there was really a difference between the three. In the big picture, they all showed her what she was; what the world was, and how it always would be should she think otherwise. She’d been foolish. At least now she wouldn’t be tempted ever again.

 

Her mistresses scowl refused to fade as if forever etched onto her face like a carnival mask, the only thing that changed was her eyes closing, the removal of her wrinkled hand, and the small ‘hmph’ she made upon riding off to her home in the Palace of Justice. Of course, Quasimoda had been naive enough to think her mistress would at least spare her the shame of walking back into her cage, but no such luck existed for her, even if there was a gypsy that cared.

 

The crowds parted with no doubt shock and gasps, the hunched woman stumbled through the crowds with her head shield by a massive bicep. She limped on the damp and slippery cobblestones, back to Notre Dame.

 

Back to her sanctuary.

 

Back to her prison.

 

 

* * *

 

The departure of the populace of Paris allowed a new vantage point in the drab and dreary square, the colorful dyes of the festival washing free of their coaks as their lack of waterproofing washed into the drainage system. It would no doubt be an interesting time watching the women do laundry, for once.

 

In the footsteps of Parisians, Phoebe kept her eyes narrowed at one particular figure with a hunched back, black soles more than visible beneath narrow limbs that protruded from a ragged indigo cloak. The tapping of a cane hardly filtered beneath the sounds of splashing puddles and orders from crabby guards that were ushering the citizens back to their homes. The insignificance of a blind old man who was clearly a vagabond not even surfacing on their radar. Phoebe made a mental note to train her men for disguises. The gypsy boy was obviously beneath the cloak; and if they couldn’t see that, she would have to carry this out herself.

 

The hunched figure disappeared behind the open door of the church, the other hunchback nowhere to be found. In a way, Phoebe found herself sympathizing for the poor girl. She’d barely been under the thumb of Frollo herself for a few hours and was already gaining respect for this deformed one who was still alive after no doubt being sheltered since birth by the last person in the world that should’ve become a mother. Of course she was bound to be psychologically damaged, but she was still alive. If she ever had the reason to, the captain told herself to ask about the bell ringer, even if her superior wouldn’t want to talk about it.

 

Rearing Hippolyte towards the looming gray facade of Notre Dame, she rode up to the doors, leaving the horse to eating the discarded fruits and vegetables that littered the area beside the flogging post where the young hunchback had been bound.

 

The main hall of the famous church was eerily silent, the glowing light of hundreds of candles keeping the massive columns and archways rather well lit in the darkness of the outside. The young captain had been to the masses every Sunday and the occasional Christmas feast when she but but knee high, and little appeared to have changed in the near two decades of her absence. She removed her golden helmet, as the invisible words of worshippers reminded her to do so. It was one of the few places that offered comfort to the young woman, to know that in the silence and equality of the church, she was not in a position of power so long as she wasn’t provoked to be by some unruly Parisian. But thankfully, she knew the chances of such a thing happening under the watchful eyes of God in his most holy of sanctuaries were nonexistent. Unfortunately, though, she was on a mission.

 

To her near delight, the gypsy boy, Esmerald, as she recalled it, was staring in awe of the architectural triumph, his goat beside him doing the very same. She she closed in on the teenager, she attempted to be as silent as possible. The church's silence was a curse at the moment, for if they were anywhere else; a marché perhaps, she could sprint at the vagabond with no caution whatsoever. Not that sprinting was a good idea in a heavy suit of armor, but at Phoebe least figured she could do it.

 

She was only a few feet from the boy. This was far too easy. He hadn’t even notice she was creeping up behind him. Reaching up a gauntlet covered hand, she positioned a finger to politely tap him on the back, at least to get his attention before she arrested him.

 

But in an instant the boy spun around and punched the captain in the only spot that wouldn’t result in a broken hand: Her face. The impact surprised her so much that she yelped in shock and agony as the fist connected with her left eye, stumbling back as the calm silence was shattered by her creaking armor and surprised yell. Before she could retaliate the scabbard of her sword rattled as the weapon was lifted from its holster, yanking her forward and giving Esmerald just enough leverage to flip her onto her back, the crushing weight of the golden metal making the girl regret her choice of wear.

 

“ _You._ ” He growled as she lifted her head up, the sharpened end of her blade poised in a dangerous place above her jugular.

 

A wave of sandy blonde bangs fell over her eyes as her heart rate sped up within the heavy suit. She blew them out of her vision just in time to scoot away from the boy and her sword. He paced with the blade close as her back pressed to a column, the goat stalking with his barefoot master.

 

“Easy, easy, I don’t need a haircut.” She stuttered, her gaze focused on the blade of her sword that held a clear reflection of her terror and uneasiness.

 

“Really? You’re overdue for one.” The gypsy said with cunning through his gritted teeth, inching the sword so that it pressed against her neck lightly, the prick of pain registering through her fear. Thankfully it didn’t draw blood.

 

“Fine. Just…” She paused backing up as far as she could go, the dents in her armor already growing and pressing to the small of her back and reminding her she was as good as dead unless she could think of a way to outsmart this rat.

 

“Just give me a chance to apologize.” She held up her hands defensively.

 

“Whatever for, _captain_?” He growled with threatening, narrowed green eyes.     

 

With a quick motion of her leg her boot connected with the gypsies leg at the same time her gauntlet grabbed comfortably round the blade, said gypsy falling to the floor with a muffled curse and a grunt. He pulled himself to his knees, fists forming as his turned to face the captain who had gotten up from the column, her sword poised to behead with a quick motion, should she choose to.

 

“You sneaky little b-” The blade wagged almost playfully before the boy as Phoebe scowled at him.

 

“Watch it kid. We’re in a church.” She scolded despite the fact that she was completely guilty of such qualms. With a glance at the angry teenager she lowered her sword and drew it back to her. The boy took the opportunity and stood.

 

“Gee, I wonder, are you always this charming or is this just my lucky day?” He grabbed hold of a candelabra and swung it at captain, the young woman easily blocking the swinging iron rod as it clanged against her sword. The fighting continued before the captain sought to compliment his decent fighting.

 

“You fight almost as well as my men.” She grunted as she blocked another two swings from the candelabra, locking them both in a stalemate between the same column he’d nearly killed her at.

 

“Really? Then I must not be fighting very well at all!” He grinned devilishly and broke the stalemate as Phoebe flushed at the insult, despite knowing it to be true.

 

“That smarts, kid. And here I was going easy on you.”

 

“Easy? What, that black eye isn’t enough?” He remarked at the swelling bruise where his fist had connected with a very noticeable mark. Phoebe subconsciously hoped that it wasn’t as noticeable as the boy painted it out to be. Her men would have a field day with sexist remarks.

 

“I’m quite fine without stitches, thank you very much.” She grunted as the iron rod connected with her sword once again, the gypsy putting his weight on his makeshift weapon to make her fold. But Phoebe was nothing if not resilient.

 

“It would be quite a shame to break that lovely face you have there, I agree.” Esmerald flaunted with a sarcastic chuckle.

 

“Funny. I was about to say the same thing about you!” The captain shoved the rod from her sword, swinging once more only for him to block as she’d recalled herself doing when she’d first begun training.

 

With a growl and a swipe of the candelabra, a hail of candles smacked her in the face, the cracking of breaking wax echoing as she felt her sword drop. She fumbled to recover it, but the clang of the base against her tarnished breastplate stopped her, her vision still dizzy from the candles’ impact.

 

“Give up?” The boy said slyly.

 

“Touche.” She mumbled, shaking her head in defeat. The impact of the little goats horns pushed her back, her gauntlets grasping at the dented metal in pain. She opened her eyes to meet the gypsies threatening green ones, the candelabra poised to strike again as he and the goat backed away slowly. “Didn’t know you had a kid.” She frowned.

 

“Well in case you noticed he doesn’t take kindly to soldiers.” He growled and took another step back.

 

“I did,” She grunted as the pain began to subside. “Anyway, my name is Phoebe. It means,” She hesitated. “Goddess.” She made up. The look the gypsy gave his goat told her neither of them were buying it. The captain cleared her throat before extending her gauntlet. “And you are…”

 

“Is this an interrogation?” The teenager raised a raven eyebrow to the point where it disappeared from the waves of bangs.

 

Phoebe rolled her eyes before setting her sword back in its holster. “It’s called an introduction. Just trying to be polite.” Her gaze fell to the floor.

 

“And you’re not arresting me?” He held the iron rod a little more tensely, the face he made suggested the words not and arresting had yet to be used in the same conversation.

 

“Not as long as you’re in here. It’s a sanctuary.” She attempted not to say it the way it sounded. The gypsy seemed to pay the tone no mind, as he was setting the weapon back to the tiled floor where it originally stood, now devoid of its candles.

 

“You’re not at all like the other soldiers.” He remarked before stepping back into the light that filtered in through the stained glass window. “You actually know how to fight.” He mumbled that, but Phoebe still heard it.

 

She thanked him, but he snorted in response, as if to remind her that she had still yielded to him. “So,” He kept an eyebrow raised. “If you’re not going to haul me off to prison, what do you want?”

 

The captain crossed her arms. “I’d settle for a name.” She took a step closer.

 

The gypsy looked at her, a mixture of confusion and what seemed to be admiration on his tawny features. He answered with a polite enough. “Esmerald.”

 

“It suits you.” She paused as the boy took a step closer only to realize that he was nearly three inches over her. The name truly was fitting. It matched his eyes to perfection. “Much better than Phoebe anyhow.” She added, thinking of the stupidity of her own name and the false definition she’d given it.

 

The teenager smiled down at her and she felt a grin blossoming on her features like the first iris of spring after a bitter frost. He was so handsome, and he was leaning in closer. She felt herself doing the same. They were inches from one another's lips as the doors to the church flew open, the cold wind blowing out the first few rows of candles. The judge stood at the other end of the cavernous building, guards flanking her at both sides. She had a smile on, a far cry better than her curdling scowl.

 

But it wasn’t any less terrifying.

 

“Good work Captain Phoebe. Now, arrest him.” Her tone was still icy, but slightly less so. The captain whirled around to Esmerald, her eyes warning.

 

“Claim sanctuary!” She whispered, as not to alert her superior as if what she was saying. The gypsies face fell into a hard frown as his hands became fists, his reflection on her gold plated armor distorted like his sudden rage. “ _Say it!_ ” She urged.

 

“You tricked me.” He growled, his teeth clenched.

 

“I’m waiting dear.” The judge called out with warning, strolling closer. Phoebe shook her head and turned to face her boss, her face hard and devoid of emotion. Her voice was monotone as it spoke.

 

“I cannot, ma’am. He claimed sanctuary. There’s nothing I can do.”

 

The judge tensed for a moment, the smile twisting into disdain as if the captain had attempted to insult her or her authority. Frollo’s voice raised as she came closer, the wrinkles etched upon her face tripling. “Then drag him outside, and-”

 

“Frollo, you are out of line.” The archdeacon strolled out from behind a column, his brass candle douter still in his hand. The old man walked between Esmerald and the others, placing a hand on his shoulder.

 

“He is a wanted criminal, deacon. I have every right to relieve you of him.” Frollo seemed if anything mildly bothered by this, as if the matter were as simple as the gypsy needing to collect his shoes before being imprisoned.

 

“That is not in your jurisdiction. This boy is within the house of god. Any crimes he wishes to repent shall be done so here.”

 

Esmerald refrained from saying anything that could possibly contradict this man’s words. He had committed crimes, of course, but he was a gypsy. There were no sins he would be confessing, be it to this old man or to some imaginary god. Some things were better left to himself.

 

“You’re obstructing justice, deacon. I can forcefully remove him if you wish.”

 

“Be that as it may, he claimed sanctuary. And you, more than anyone, would know not to violate the sanctity of this church.” His voice became low.

 

Frollo’s mouth became constricted as if she’d eaten a lemon, her lips puckered as the withering scowl returned at full force. One could almost see the pure rage radiating off of her. With no words in response, she raised a hand, and the guards began to leave the church. Phoebe and the archdeacon led them all out, Djali being particularly enthusiastic about getting the captain away from his master. But unbeknownst to everyone, Frollo ducked behind one of the hundreds of columns, pressing her hands into the cold stone as the deacon and the captain left the boy alone.

 

For a moment, Esmerald felt safe. His arms were crossed in silent satisfaction as he watched the holy man lead the rather attractive soldier from the vast structure. So of course, the last thing he expected was the surprisingly strong grasp of the judge to be pinning his arm behind his back, twisting it in a way that made him suck in a breath and bite his tongue so hard he tasted blood.

 

A small sigh escaped the elderly judge as her other hand trialed up the fabric of his poet’s shirt to hold his other arm in place, her bony fingers and garish rings giving him the illusion of a colorful spider from a child’s nightmares. It was a sigh of… contentment, desire? Honestly the youth couldn’t say.

 

“You think you’ve outsmarted me,” Frollo said just above a whisper, her bony chin perching itself on the gypsy boys shoulder. Esmerald struggled but the pain that shot through his arm made him grunt in pain. As much as he hated to admit it, she’d trapped him.

 

“But you should know I spent nearly seventy years clawing my way to the title of judge, so I can easily wait.” She continued with an heir of bliss, her tone nothing alike her expression of anger.

 

Esmerald gritted his teeth as he scowled at the judge who remained behind him and out of his line of sight in this position. He wished he could at least see her. Not because he wanted to. It just would’ve been far more comforting to know the face he would be avoiding at all costs.

 

“For what,” He demanded with no threat in mind or tone.

 

“For you to… _crack._ ” With these words she twisted his arm further and Esmerald let loose a small shout in pain as his arm was slowly displaced from its socket. He struggled again but to no avail. She laughed at if she was sharing with him wonderful news. Her twisted face was gone, replaced with a knowing and overconfident grin.

 

“The only thing I’ll crack;” He breathed with another tug at his arms. “Is that row of dentures.” He snarled.

 

“You’ve got some bite.” The judge smiled at him in a manner that made the gypsy boy feel physically ill. “But rest assured you won’t be a trouble for much longer.” Esmerald narrowed his glowing green eyes at the threat, who silently cackled.

 

“You know just what I am referring to, boy. Gypsies live freely, without restraint. Something which causes much trouble indeed. They need to be punished for their crimes. Your kind never did thrive inside stone walls.” She paused and sheltered her long nose in the teenagers raven locks, taking a deep whiff that lasted far longer than it should have. It was more than disturbing to him, and he went still from shock.

 

“What are you doing?” His voice was lulled, but laced with suspicion, knowing whatever she had to say would not be an answer he’d want to hear.

 

“Oh,” She mused, his other hand creeping up to his shoulder and slowly constricting around his jugular. “I was just imagining a rope, coiled around that strong, sturdy neck.” Her voice was dripping with desire, as if she were imagining far more than a rope around simply his neck.

 

It was a sickening realization. And Esmerald wished for a moment he had remained blissfully unaware of the judges imagination. He felt bile rising in the back of his throat as he felt strength tearing through his freed arm. In a quick motion he was free of the judges grip, the pain in his arm refusing to fade with the disturbing visions of him, tied to a bed as she-

 

The teenager shivered and shook his head, desperate for the vision to fade. “I know what you were imagining. You know it will never happen.” He snarled as the elderly woman folded her arms.

 

“Such a clever witch. So typical to twist the human mind and cloud it with your unholy ways and thoughts. Gypsies are everywhere, but then again, so was the plague. There will come a time when you’re mine. Perhaps not today, nor tomorrow. But until then I will patiently await your surrender.” With that, she strolled away, her large ribbon trailing behind her as she stepped into the light of the outside world.

 

“You have chosen a magnificent prison for yourself, boy. But it is a prison nonetheless.” She turned to face him again, this time as a distant silhouette. “The first toe you set away from this… sanctuary,” The judge nearly mocked. “You will be mine.”

  
With that, she slammed the doors, leaving Esmerald alone in his new prison.


	7. God Help The Outcasts

The instant Judge Claudia Frollo was out of his line of sight, the instant the echoing from the church doors became non existent, and the instant he got feeling back into his mangled and slightly injured arm, Esmerald ran. His footfalls echoed in the vast halls of Notre Dame, the tiled floors bracing the foot traffic of many barefoot gypsies and therefore practically immune to the grime black dust the coated the young man’s feet in layers more extensive than Esmerald cared to admit. Djali followed, matching his masters pace as they both darted towards the side passageway that could be their only chance at immediate escape. Unfortunately, the teenager had underestimated the guards of Paris, (not by much, of course) and by the time he reached the other door, there was a troop of goons stationed only ten feet from the exit, rain once again beginning to fall from the heavens in a light drizzle.

 

“Frollo’s orders. Post a guard at every door.” One of them announced. With those words brought to his attention, the raven haired gypsy took a breath, removed his violet waist scarf and pressed it to his mouth.

 

After nearly five minutes of the most unbearable cursing and swearing imaginable, the gypsy removed his scarf from where it covered his mouth, taking slight comfort in his warm breath before tying the cloth trial in its original knot and pressing his back against one of the massive columns that made the doorway for the east entrance for the stunning architectural model. He let loose a withered grone as Dajli pressed against his legs as if trying to reassure him. Despite the motion, Esmerald felt himself sliding down the cold grey column that he would be most likely growing more familiar with. At least until Frollo finally crumbled into a pile of dust, that was.

 

Something in her tone, words, and physical abuse told the boy she wouldn’t be doing that anytime soon. In the broad scheme of things this was, in fact, a waiting game. Esmerald knew he had the upper hand now. He knew that archdeacon would give him sanctuary in the church, give him food, give him a bed, give him the occasional nod of acceptance, but he couldn’t get him out of this mess. Far from it. If anything it would be a reminder that he would need to give up one day. Because for now, Esmerald knew the judge wouldn’t be going anywhere.

 

It was perhaps a saving grace to know that he was likely the only person in this game not bound to some manifestation that was most likely not even there to do anything but watch his disciples fall over themselves to thank him for deeds he more often than not hadn’t given two francs over. It comforted the gypsy boy to know that while Frollo was taken hold of by her lust, she was still bound her willingness to serve her superior, or whatever was up there making his own life difficult.

 

It brought him to question just what he had done to deserve the ire of the world out there. While the gypsy hardly busied himself in other people’s affairs he found it terribly unfair that he was basically stuck in a cage with a bunch of suckups for freeing a woman that was not unlike himself. She was disfigured, unfortunate, most likely hurt or abused in her lifetime. How was it justice that she was suffering for something she most likely couldn’t help?

 

Esmerald frowned at the white and black checkered tile that showed him a clear reflection, the distant stains of muddy bootprints hardly interfering with the vision. His thoughts drifted back to the hunchback that was probably out in the rain somewhere near. Tears welled up in his eyelids as he considered if his actions truly were just or not. After all, he had helped her onto that stage, earned her admiration that quickly devolved into humiliation. He had been the cause of everything that went wrong in that festival that he had worked so hard to make memorable with fellow gypsy Clopine. It would certainly be memorable, but not in the way he had hoped. One drop left his emerald eyes before he forced them back in, quickly wiping the evidence into his sleeve. He couldn’t achieve anything by just sitting here and crying certainly wouldn’t help matters. If Frollo- no, if anyone saw that, he would be written off as another unfortunate soul. Esmerald knew he wasn’t weak. He wouldn’t dare give them the satisfaction to see him this down and lowly. He was better than that. Stronger. Wiser. He’d outwitted France’s finest captain and her band of merry mules.

 

And if a gypsy could do that, what was he doing sitting here?           

               

“Don’t worry Djali.” He resolved as he comforted his goat companion. “If Frollo thinks she can keep us in here, she’s got another thing coming.”

 

The quiet footsteps of the elderly archdeacon were so distant, yet so close. “I would advise against it my boy.” He held the candle doubter in both hands, lowering the lighter side onto a row that was beginning to fade. Esmerald looked up and him and held back a frown.

 

“You caused…” He paused. “Quite a stir at the festival.” Even though his back was facing him, Esmerald could the deacon was smiling at the idea. But once he turned around there was only a knowing sadness that rested in his eyes. “It would be unwise to test Frollo any further.”

 

Esmerald released the frown, subconsciously turning towards the door that blocked his view of the cocky and offensive judge that plagued him and kept him prisoner. “I can’t believe she calls herself pious. Good Christian my eye.” He grumbled the last part.

 

“I never said she was just. Personally it pains me to see this all unfold.” The archdeacon furrowed his brow at the door in ire.

 

“But you saw what she did. Everyone did. Letting the crowd torture that poor girl simply because she doesn’t have the face of a virgin, what do you make of that?” He felt himself standing at the holy mans side, placing both hands on his hips as his gaze fell to the glow of the candles that kept darkness from the house of god.

 

The archdeacon sighed, contempt in his tone. “It is not my place to pass judgement on others. That is only for God to do.”

 

“That will be a long time coming. She seems insistent that I pay the price.” He deadpanned as the deacon placed a free hand on his arm, leading him and his hateful gaze away from the church doors.

 

“Why does he let this happen?” Esmerald finally asked. “Why is God letting this woman go on when he’s beared witness to so much bloodshed?”

 

“The God we place our faith in always has a plan. I’m sure one day Frollo will pay for her deeds.”

 

“But what about the remains she leaves in her wake? What about the lives and families she’s ruined? You can’t tell me that they’ll all be fixed.”

 

“I cannot say. Faith is something connected not only to God, but to a soul. If you believe things will improve, miracles can happen.”

 

The gypsy attempted to hold back a scoff. “My boy, miracles come in strange forms. You’re honestly lucky you managed to get this far. Remember that within these walls, you are without worry.”

 

“Without threat, but not without worry your holiness.” He replied with a jaded voice. Silence prevailed for a period of time, their collective footsteps echoing in the vast corridor that separated them from the multitude of wooden benches the many Parisians kneeled upon with hope in their hearts and souls.

 

“What is stopping you from accepting your fate?” The holy man finally asked. Esmerald paused.

 

“Because as much as it pains me to admit it, Frollo was right about one thing. Gypsies don’t do well inside stone walls.”

 

“Well in the meantime, what can you expect to do? I’ve known Judge Frollo far longer, and if I know her, she will not be faulted by anyone.” He seemed to say so in a grave voice, as if he’d known this for a fact and had more than likely witnessed it.

 

“Oh? Am I not the first gypsy trapped here?” He questioned with no real desire to hear an answer.

 

“No, unfortunately not. But hopefully the last.”

 

Esmerald shivered at the thought. “Is this supposed to make me feel better?”     

 

“I would hope it could.” The archdeacon attempted. “But if it doesn’t than you have the church, yes?”

 

“What I want isn’t sanctuary. All do respect the only help I want to accept is help from myself because nobody out there can be reliable. Not when I’m the gypsy and they’re the Christians. Today was a lesson, sir. A reminder that while I may be applauded compared to Frollo, I’m still an enemy in everyone’s eyes. That poor woman was evidence enough. I was just too stupid to not realize it sooner; to think that people would change because there’s injustice in the world and they’d rather turn a blind eye than do anything about it.”

 

The archdeacon released a wry chuckle. “My boy, you may not be a true Christian, but you have the heart of one.” Esmerald barely managed to return his heartfelt stare.

 

“It’s not Christian.” He looked conflicted. “It’s nothing.”

 

“You say it’s nothing, and yet I’m sure young Quasimoda is very grateful of your deed. I’m grateful. Don’t be modest; it’s been years since I’ve seen someone as brave as you.”

 

“I’m a gypsy. According to them it’s my job to be a rebel.” The boy knew for a fact they always meant brave. But brave under Frollo was dangerous. That was the idea. “Take the blame so they can be sinful.” He frowned at the checkered tile in disdain. In fact, what was stopping him from doing that right now? Stepping out into the rainy square and letting the judge win right now, and save them the trouble?

 

The archdeacon seemed to realize what the gypsy was thinking. “Listen, my boy.” The holy man seemed to harden a bit. “You may be brave but you certainly aren’t stupid. Indulging the judge’s wishes will do you nor me no good. Take what you can, and be grateful you’re still here on earth. There are things Frollo has done that would make Hell look like a vacation to Calanque de Maubois.”

 

A period of silence passed before the gypsy boy cast a nod the deacons way, agreeing with a jaded voice. The look in his eyes told the man this boy didn’t have faith in anything.

 

“You may not be able to right all the wrongs in this world. But if you persist, know that there may be someone in this church that could be a listening ear.” With that, the elderly archdeacon walked away, his doubter in hand as he started towards a row of dead and dying candles. Esmerald looked after the man, curious to his words and their meaning. He quickly realized the answer and paused for a good moment, his thoughts conflicting in a war of decent proportions.

 

He was a gypsy, the child of a spinner and a missionary that didn’t even want him. This religion had touched him far more than anything else in this world. He was a gypsy. He was an atheist. There was danger to it in a Christian world but Esmerald had long ago given up his faith in some imaginary quick fix. The hard realities of life had taught him to believe otherwise. He couldn’t achieve anything by groveling in some supposedly holy structure and just hoping on blind optimism that his life would improve. Years of silence greeted his ears when it came to the mercy of God. There were things done to him that God could have, no, should have stopped from happening to him. But every time he had prayed for goodness and mercy, only emptiness and disappointment was his reward. Was he really so desperate he would reduce himself to the common pawn?

 

“You’re already a pawn.” He deadpanned. “And you’re going to be captured.”

 

With a tentative step from behind one of the massive stone columns, the moist winter mist surrounded the little alcove the sheltered a statue of the Virgin Mary and a halo crowned toddler Jesus, both a little bigger than they could’ve possibly been in real life. They hardly looked intimidating. If anything, they looked peaceful. The teenager felt a bit envious of them to not have a worry or fear in the world. He’d never been so fortunate.

 

 _“I don’t know if you can hear me,”_ He took a few steps into the misty light. _“Or if you’re even there.”_ They both seemed completely silent. They were statues, and only that.

 

“I don’t know if you would listen to a gypsy's prayer.” Esmerald deadpanned as he reached the front of the statue, gazing at the offerings of white orchids on the pedestal of the effigy.

 

“Yes, I know I’m just some outcast,” He frowned, his gaze falling to one side where a soft glow emanated from behind the grey overcast. “I shouldn’t speak to you.”

 

 _“Still I see your face and wonder,”_ He focused on the subtle chips in the statues seemingly holy physique, the flaws still visible despite the holy essence it left. One on Mary’s robes, one on the child’s cheek, another on Madonna’s caring hands. They bore scars just as he did, hinting to what they were beneath the holy shroud of deceit. _“Were you once an outcast too?”_

 

His voice echoed with the softness of the churches atmosphere, the glow of the hundreds of candles giving his tawny skin an unearthly like glow. _“God help the outcasts, hungry from birth, show them the mercy the can’t find on earth,”_ His mind drifted to the hundreds; possibly thousands of poor people he’d seen that were not gypsies, but Christians.     

 

“God help the outcasts, we look to you still,” He passed along the side corridor, the shadows of others leaving a sad feeling to the dark passage. _“God help the outcasts, or nobody will…”_

 

“I ask for wealth,” One Parisian pleaded.

 

“I ask for fame,” A young woman voiced with desperation.

 

“I ask for glory to shine on my name.” Many said at once as they passed, their hands clasped to their hearts as Esmerald continued to stroll past their trek to the alter.

 

“I ask for love,” A spinster cried at the altar, her hair grey and frazzled with age and stress. “I can possess!” Many finished after her, desperate for love as well.

 

“I ask for God and his angels to bless me!” All of them pleaded to the gorgeous stained glass as if it somehow offered a prayer when the only thing it offered with beauty and light. Esmerald sighed as he leaned against a bench, the prayers of Paris echoing in the main hall.

 

 _“I ask for nothing,”_ He frowned sadly at the others. _“I can get by, but I know so many less lucky than I.”_

 

The gypsy started down the main hall, his feet padding against the cathedrals floor so softly one couldn’t hear him doing so. The deacon was right to say he was lucky. And while he wasn’t lucky enough to avoid capture, he at least had the bare essentials. At least he had both his legs and arms. At least he had friends. At least he could work for a decent amount of money. There were many that couldn’t do or didn’t have all of that. Esmerald actually knew a many with just one of the three.

 

 _“Please help my people, the poor and downtrod,”_ He reached the main intersection, the window of stained glass framing him in its warmth and light, the millions of colors shading his tawny skin and raven hair. _“I thought we all were the children of God.”_

 

 _“God help the outcasts,”_ He paused as a tear began to leave his eye. _“The children of God.”_

 

A soft nudge got his attention with the brush of course hair as Djali seemed to comfort him, and Esmerald suddenly dipped and gave his goat a hug, reminded he still had his best friend to get him through this. Unbeknownst to him, however, a figure was watching in the shadow of a column with a dream-like smile on her distorted facial features. Both the gypsy and the goat snapped to attention at the voice of a rotund man who noticed the young hunchback him her vantage point of non interference.

 

“You! Hunchback!” He broke the silence that hung in the main hall as the ginger haired girl yelped at the sudden call of her form. “What are you doing down here?” He asked in a vulgarly unpleasant manner as the poor creature stumbled back, startled, and knocked over a candelabra. Esmerald jumped at the sound, releasing his goat and instinctively tore a knife from its pocket in his poet’s shirt. He quickly dropped it when he saw the hunched young woman as she struggled to get away from the church-goers ire as he went on about her causing enough trouble already. The deformed young woman was stumbling back towards an alcoved staircase. Instinct passed through the gypsy again.

 

“Wait!” His voice was lacking the urgency that Esmerald felt he had. The hunchback disappeared up the stairs in a flash of terror as she seemed to recognize him; or at least his voice. Esmerald cast a withering scowl the Parisians way and ran after her, Djali following behind with a sound of surprise.

 

“I wanted to talk to you.” The teen reached the alcove and noticed the spiral staircase that wound up around a dark corner, the heavy footfalls of the hunched young woman echoing loudly as she furthered herself with him. He paused for a moment before doing anything more, a nudge from Djali forcing him to continued as he continued in varied steps up the staircase in order to match the hunchbacks movements.

 

* * *

 

The blazing orange sunset cast tall shadows along the parapets, the intricately carved banisters and rails of the crossing balcony that connected the two massive bell towers creating strangely shaped blotches on the stone facade. The hunchback was already up in the bell tower, her knowledge of the building far more extensive than even the archdeacon; much less a gypsy boy and his goat. The gargoyles had spent nearly their entire lifetimes in the towers as well, so when this handsome youth appeared on the balcony, intrigue filled their weathered stone bodies.

 

“Hey, look guys, she’d brought a friend with her!” Harry beckoned to the divot in the towers that provided a decent vantage point from which to watch their friends life unfold. Victoria and Lorenzo hopped over, both intent on understanding what the joker meant by friend.

 

“No feathers, it would seem,” Victoria observed rubbing her chin in thought.

 

“He’s no bird you idiot he’s a man!” Lorenzo smacked the other gargoyle with a cracked palm.

 

“A picture of perfection, wouldn’t you say Harriet?” She said rubbing the new divot where her companion had slapped her, knowing that it would take months to smooth out.

 

“Yeah.” She agreed with a dreamy sigh as the white goat trotted behind. “And the kid aint bad either.” A moment of awkward silence passed as both of the gargoyles stared at Harriet in confusion and surprise. After the moment passed all three of them hopped from their perches and dropped to the floor right in front of Quasimoda, giving her congratulations in response to her abject terror.

 

“You big lug you got the boys chasing you already!” Harry remarked with a massive smile as the hunchback turned her head quickly to glance back at the quickly approaching raven haired boy.

 

“Yeah, sure, now let me through!” She pleaded in desperation as she stumbled past Harry only for Victoria to grab her arm, holding it still as her window of time quickly begin to close.

 

“What are you doing, Quasi? You can’t let him escape!” She almost laughed as the deformed young woman struggled to free herself from the rock hard grip even though she knew it was no use.

 

“Actually, that’s exactly what I’m-”

 

“Give him some slack, then reel her in,” Harry demonstrated as the hunchback tore free from her friends hold, more chips forming in the gargoyles body from her brashness. Lorenzo quickly stopped Harry and her ridiculous demonstration with a slap to the head, saying that he was a man, not a mackerel. Silence suddenly prevailed as the ginger haired woman stumbled further into the darkness of her sanctuary, the footfalls of the gypsy boy suddenly echoing as he caught up to her.

 

“There you are.” He breathed in exhaustion from running up three flights of stairs. “I’d thought I’d lost you there.”

 

Quasimoda struggled to turn and face the kind and handsome gypsy, the golden rays of the coming sunset shining on his raven locks and tawny complexion. “Yes, um-” She tremored. “You did, but I have…”

 

“Chores! Lots of chores, that you can’t be here for so,” Quasimoda stumbled towards the ladder in her desperate need to escape what should have been her worst enemy. “It was nice; seeing you again.” She turned away from the teenager as he looked at her with a mixture of confusion and knowing disbelief.

 

Her feet stamped against the wooden floor again as the deformed woman began to stumble away faster than she had before, bursts of energy quickly greeting her as she ascended the rickety staircase up to her loft that held her little Paris.

 

“No, wait!” The gypsy cried and began to follow her again, taking the steps three at a time. “I’m so sorry about this afternoon. I had no idea who you were.” Quasimoda reached the ladder, and he quickly followed.

 

“I would never in all my life have put you up-” He stopped when he realized the hunchback was nowhere to be seen at the top of the landing. “On the…” He started again and trailed off as he pulled himself up, a new site coming into view.

 

“Stage.” He finished breathlessly as Djali struggled at the bottom of the ladder, calling for his barefoot masters aid. The gypsy suspended his surprise and disbelief as he helped his goat up the ladder, and walked closer to the intricate model before him.

 

The little Paris before him was definitely little and definitely realistic. The cathedral sat in the center of it all, barely the size of Djali’s head, surrounded by every shop, business, apartment, and tote flag set up for the festival like the true Paris before them. Little bridges of pebbles and rock chips stretched over the vast, imaginary Seine, and upon closer inspection, there were people. But not like dolls. Every single one of the citizens of Paris seemed to be immortalized in wooden figurines so detailed and lifelike the gypsy could even see telltale scars and birthmarks that set them apart from the rest. There was jealousy in some eyes, happiness in others.

 

“What is all this?” He questioned taking a step into the threshold.

 

“This is-” The hunched young woman seemed to stutter for a moment. “My sanctuary.” She finally finished, her meek voice carrying through the rafters as if she’d long ago given up trying to compete with the melodies and volume the bells created.

 

“This place? The bell towers?” The hunchback nodded as Esmerald did a turn to look around, the vastness of the area easily equal, if not bigger than the decorated parts it boasted to the public. There was no stone, no intricacy, and the only form of stained glass to be found here was little shards that looked to be made from broken bottles that were delicately strung and hung above the model like the mystical Aurora Borealis.

 

“Did you…” The gypsy boy paused again in awe. “Did you make all this?”

 

“Most of it.” Quasimoda uttered. Technically the only things she didn’t make was the wood used to carve it all and the bottles came from pieces of pigeon nests and the occasional wine bottle her Mistress left behind. It was a quick and easy process to hang them, the broken glass easy to handle on her thickly calloused hands.

 

“It’s so real.” Her guest looked down at the model in awe, bended to a squat to get a better look. “If I could do this you wouldn’t see me dancing in the street for coins.”

 

Quasimoda stumbled from her hiding place, a small smile tugging at her lips. “But you’re a wonderful dancer.”

 

Emerald stood back up and sent an appreciative grin her way, to which she seemed to warm to like a flower would to sunlight. There was a part of him that looked modest while another part of him looked… almost guilty.   
  


“Thank you,” He took a breath. “It’s not all that rewarding though. Nothing like this.”

 

Quasimoda stared for a moment, and the gypsy sighed in a deflated manner. “Because of my performance this afternoon I’ve earned the ire of Judge Frollo. It would appear that we’re roommates now.”

 

With that, the confusion left the woman quickly, her face draining. A momentary awkward silence passed between them until Esmerald turned his attention back to the hunchbacks crafts. His green orbs wandered to the cathedral and he saw a misshapen block of wood, it’s green tunic and brown hosen identical to the hunchback that stood before him.

 

“Is this supposed to be you?” His tawny fingers brushed the model tentatively as Quasimoda stumbled over to him as fast as she could and nearly threw herself at the model church, but the gypsy had her in his hand before she could stop it. She frowned sadly at the wooden slats of floor as the gypsy boy focused his eyes on the model.

 

“It was my first.” She squeaked.

 

“This was your first.” He echoed quietly, turning the hunchback over and admiring the craftsmanship. “I don’t mean to offend, my friend. But this doesn’t look anything like you.” Quasimoda broke her contest with the floor and looked up at him with frightened eyes, unsure if it was an insult or not.

 

“You’re far more real than any of these people. You’re far more interesting.” He finished with a small smile, setting the little wooden effigy back on the bell tower where it was before he’d examined it. “You’re a surprising person, Quasimoda.” He finished.

 

When the hunched young woman cracked a smile, he matched at as he stepped out into the vastness of this one alcove that was ten times the size of the biggest place the gypsy had called home in his entire life. “Not to mention lucky. All this room to yourself?”

 

She seemed to redden a bit at the gypsies comment despite not knowing why. “Well,” She waffled. “It’s never been just me. There’s Leon,” She recounted, twirling a lock of ginger hair. “And there’s the gargoyles, and also…”

 

“The bells.” She stated with a hint of confusion, as if remembering something. Sundown. Bells. “The evening bells… you don’t have a watch do you?”

 

Esmerald raised a raven eyebrow, the golden piercing shining in the light as if to say the time was often the last thing on his mind (and he did rely on the bells of the church).

 

“Right.” Quasimoda mumbled. “It’s going to be time to ring them soon.” She paused suddenly before hobbling over to a chest wedged between two half completed statues, rustling around the miscellaneous objects discarded with the old sculpting implements. With a triumphant grin she removed what she was looking for: a hunchback-fist-size lump of modeling clay, dots of color splattered on the dull grey from years of painting figures rubbing off on the material. She pinched two blobs of the clay between her thumb and index finger, rolling them into little spheres and presenting them to Esmerald. He gaze her a quizzical look before realizing what they were for and pressed them into his ears before doing the same to Djali.

 

The modeling clay blocking out most of the sound, she took a deep breath before running as evenly as possible and leaping off the platform, a gasp surfacing from Esmerald as he and his goat ran to the edge. With determination to please her audience, Quasimoda reached for the rope that rang the first bell of the evening, each one affectionately named by who knew who.

 

Jean Marie was the first and lightest, installed only when the hunchback was fifteen along with her triplet sisters Louise Marie and Anne Marie. Emmanuel was the oldest, having been perched at the top corner of the south tower for nearly two centuries. He was only rang for ceremonies and holidays; in fact Quasimoda had rung him along with the other bells that very morning. He was the biggest; and also the deepest. Had the gargoyles not came along when they did Quasimoda may have been reduced to giving the bells personalities too.

 

With her beefy hand tugging the rope down, Jean Marie began the chorus of bells as she swung around every rope like they were vines in a vast jungle. Every toll had a name and tone. Little Sophia was an alto, Maurice was a tenor, Benoît-Joseph was a baritone to Lucille's soft soprano. Conflicting sounds rang within the northern tower like arguing people, each desperate to have their voice heard over the others as Quasimoda continued to ring until she reached the fifth and final bell for the evening, Gabriel, and dismounted from her vantage point right beside the gypsy boy, who stared his awe as he listened to the bells through the earplugs, closing his eyes and taking the opportunity to listen to something he had only ever appreciated from a distance.

  
  


After a long time, the bells began to quiet down, the strikers losing momentum until they were patting softly against the bronze ends of the massive bells of Notre Dame. The tolls became fewer and fewer until Quasimoda motioned to Esmerald that he could remove his modeling clay, and the gypsy did so. handing the makeshift earplugs back to the hunchback with a small smile at her athletic abilities that were clearly more impressive than she was letting on.

 

“Come on,” She set the blob of clay down on her carving table. “There’s something else you should see while you’re here.”

 

“There’s more?” The gypsy’s eyes seemed to shine with a sense of  intrigue and adventure. The hunchback nodded, her ginger locks bobbing as she started up another ladder that ran up to what seemed to be to very top of the north tower. Esmerald quickly followed with Djali hopping into his arms.

 

“I’ve saved the best for last.” She almost giggled upon reaching the top to the ladder, stumbling out onto the roof of the tower that overlooked the most perfect view the gypsy had ever seen, only comparable to the rolling hills of his birthplace to the east. The sparkling colors of the falling sun dazzled in the Seine, the blazing orange of the sunset reaching a beautifully compromisable blend with every other color in the spectrum. It was so breathtaking that Esmerald felt his hold on the little white goat loosen, only for Djali to warn him with a small bleet to which the gypsy responded by setting the creature down to the surface of the roof.

 

With a sigh of longing contentment, he leaned his hands on the intricately carved stone railing, the trials of many winters leaving seemingly no damage to the barrier that separated them all from a rather high fall.

 

“I’d bet all the gold in the treasury the king doesn’t have a view this spectacular.” He marveled at the sky began to shift from a fiery orange to a dull pink. “I could stay up here forever.” He closed his eyes for a moment, the brisk winds making him feel more at peace than he’d ever been on the ground.

 

To think being locked up in a gilded cage could have its advantages. All that made it seem worth it. But Esmerald knew it wasn’t, and it never would be. A cage was a cage, even if it came with beauty and decorations. Hadn’t most ladies in tomes of fairytales fallen for the same trap?

 

“You could, you know.” Quasimoda hopped over the railing, hanging gleefully to the side as her ginger locks blew about in the wind. The gypsy paused for a moment before recoiling his hands from the railing.

 

“No, I couldn’t.” He deadpanned.

 

The hunchback swung back over the railing to meet where he stood, a brief, hopeful smile on her young face that she could have another friend to talk to that didn’t involve wandering deep into her subconscious and pulling imaginary friends to keep her company. After all Harry, Lorenzo, and Victoria were her family. But they were a family she created. There wasn’t anything that could compare to that, and she knew it.

 

“But you could. You have sanctuary. I know that it’s-” She cut off realizing how stupid she probably sounded.

 

“Exactly.” Esmerald turned away from the light. “It’s sanctuary. It’s safety. Call it whatever you please but we both know the word is prisoner. At least in my case it is.” His frown lessened a bit, thinking of how childish he was acting. This girl had been here since birth. He’d barely been here one day and already he was yearning to be free.

 

 _Freedom that will disappear quicker than a platter of communion wafers once you step out that door._ He reminded himself.

 

“Besides,” He crossed his arms and took a few steps towards the raised roof of the tower. “Gypsies don’t do well inside stone walls.” He mimicked the judges stereotype as he felt rage course through his veins at the thought of being trapped in a stalemate.

 

“B-But you’re not like the other gypsies, they’re…” A lump seemed to twitch in the hunched woman's throat. “Evil.” She nearly whispered.

 

A raven eyebrow shot up his forehead as Esmerald stepped onto the tar and tile shingles that offered little resistance to his bare feet. The black clay tiles were comfortably warm to the cold chill that hung over the Île de la Cité. “Really? Who told you that?”

 

Though he asked with no one person in mind, it hardly surprised him when she curtly answered her ‘Mistress’ Frollo, before stating she raised her. This also didn’t come as a massive shock, but what surprised the gypsy most was not that Frollo could be a mother, (In all honesty it completely terrified him), but the complete contrast in personalities that were as different as the sun and moon.

 

“But how?” He lowered himself to sit down with Quasimoda, who had her triangular jaw perched in two massive hands. She looked at him for explanation. “How could a woman so heartless have raised such a fine young lady?”

 

“Heartless?” The deformed soul questioned quite possibly for the first time. “Oh no, she’s not _heartless_ ,” She emphasized the word as if it were an exaggeration, which to her it seemed to be. “S-She saved my life.”

 

“Saved your life?” The tennager asked with a hint of skecticism laced behind all his curiosity.

 

She nodded, huddling into a ball. “She took me in when no one else would. My own mother abandoned me to the gypsies, and-” Her voice cracked as her gaze fell to the roof’s surface. “They tried to drown me.” She finished meekly, her tone hushed as if afraid to say such a thing aloud. “But Frollo, she came and took me to Notre Dame. A place where I’ll always have sanctuary from not just gypsies, but everyone. Everyone that thinks I’m a monster.”

 

“She tells you that?” Esmerald placed a tawny hand on her shoulder.

 

“Well what else can I be?” She questioned morosely. “Look at me.” Her hands gestured weakly to her hunched body, deformed face, all of her. The gypsy boy bit his lip at this comment, and silence came from him for a moment until his eyes lit up in the indigo sky, the first of billions of stars coming out to play in the night and the darkness it offered to them.

 

“Let me see your hand.” He reached for a beefy hand, and Quasimoda jerked away. “Just let me see.” With that she slowly relented, his warm touch caressing her calloused palms and fingers. He turned the large hand so the palm was facing him, spread out at his request. With a quiet sigh of interest, he ran a finger along the line of the center of her palm.

 

“A long lifeline.” He concluded. His index finger trailed over a delicate curve on the right of her hand. “The line of heart; that means you can love.” He paused. “And will find it, based on how deep it is.” He shot a smile her way as the hunchback flushed pink.

 

And so the gypsy continued to reveal the lines of her personality on a level Quasimoda had never experienced. She didn’t understand at first what Monsieur Esmerald was doing by tracing the lines on her hand, but then she found the term in her section of ‘forbidden vocabulary’ along with all the curse words she knew. Palm reading. It was intriguing and fascinating to watch as he spouted off the different things all those once inconspicuous lines in her calloused palm and fingers meant. A deep line of health, a shallow girdle of Venus, a thick divot that instituted her creativity, a thin scar that Esmerald misinterpreted as a marriage line. Finally, after much was revealed, he seemed to stumble, his analysis halting as he began to squint and grunt in confusion.

 

“That’s odd. I’m not seeing any.” He frowned at her hand and Quasimoda felt a rushed sense of panic at the gypsy boys words. When she asked what he didn’t see, Esmerald pressed his hand against her palm, and the bell ringer suddenly noticed the smile he had on his young features.

 

“Monster lines.” He stated matter-of-factly. “Not even a hairline.” He assured her with a nod.

 

“Now,” He held out his hand. “Look at my hand. Do you think I look evil?”

 

Quasimoda instantly grabbed the hand and held it close to examine the delicate lines, reassuring him with all the words she could think of and several she’d forgotten she knew. Good, kind, nurturing, handsome. Finally after a moment she paused, running out of words and stuttering at “And,”

 

“And a gypsy?” Esmerald reminded her. “And maybe Frollo is wrong about both of us, Quasimoda.”

 

With that, he stood up and walked back to the railing, the many torches of guards glowing in the square, waiting in the cold January night for the gypsy to give up and leave the treasured palace of God. Mundane chatter and the braying of horses could be heard from their vantage point, and Esmerald cast a glare down at the buffoons he’d made fools of only a few hours earlier. Quasimoda hobbled up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

 

“You helped me, Monsieur. You saved me from them.” She followed his gaze to the square. “And in return, I’ll save you.”

 

Esmerald raised an eyebrow, turning to face the hunchback who only continued to smile at him despite the obvious hole in her plan. “But there’s no way out, there’s soldiers and guards at every door.”

 

She laughed a little. “Only we won’t be using a door.”

 

“Please tell me you’re talking about a window, here.” The teenager pleaded, looking down at the massive church with a touch of bile rising in the back of his throat. The hunchback shook her head.

 

“You’re not afraid, are you?” She questioned hopping onto the rail, casually swinging one leg over the edge and dangling it at the guards. Esmerald quickly shook his head.

 

“I don’t doubt you can, I really don’t.” His eyes seemed to glow with a distant fear. “But you’re sure this is the best plan? If they see you they’ll kill us both.”

 

Quasimoda shrugged. “I’ve been climbing this cathedral since I was ten. A near decade of experience has to be enough to be stealthy. You can carry him,” She indicated to Djali. “And I’ll carry you.”

 

Esmerald sighed, and picked up his little white goat, taking a length of lilac chiffon and tying it tight around the shivering creatures head, soothing him a bit at he stroked the fluff behind his ear. “Alright. I’m ready.” He nodded. With a swift movement of her muscular arms, Quasimoda had him tucked in her arms.

 

“Don’t be afraid.” She said quickly.

 

“I’m not afraid.” Esmerald quickly reassured her. With that, the hunchback perched herself on the railing that separated the three of them from certain death. “Now I’m afraid,” The gypsy corrected himself as the hunchback held fast to the cathedral’s facade with one beefy hand, flipping Esmerald over her shoulder like a lady being carried off by a barbarian.

 

“The trick is not to look down.” Quasimoda hinted as Esmerald suddenly tensed his hold around Djali, the blindfold having come undone from the poor creature's eyes. He bleated in terror at the massive drop he was being hung over.

 

“You’ve done this before, right?” Esmerald squeezed his companion as he quickly shifted to the front of her shoulder, getting a full view of the opposite tower to the south.

 

“No,” She quickly answered as she swung down to the decorative aqueducts in the shape of gargoyles necks and heads, a steady stream of water dripping from nearly every one of them as the deformed young ginger jumped the narrow footholds as nimbly as children in a game of hopscotch.

 

“I thought you said you’ve been doing this since you were ten?” The gypsy countered as he squeezed his eyes shut as tight as he possibly could, unable to look ahead as the hunchback prepared to jump across the east side to the tower to the back roof over the main building.

 

“I have.” She answered with an unlikely show of confidence. “Just not with a passenger.” She faltered in her words as she lept like some wild beast to the other side, her fingers gripping tight to one of the thousands of decorative knobs that jutted from nearly every surface of the building. In less than ten seconds of scaling down, her feet reached the gable of the tin plated roof.

 

“You’re quite the acrobat.” Esmerald winked at her with a small, impressed grin. Her face went red in the darkness of the night and she silently prayed with her goofy smile that it wasn’t as noticeable as it felt. Suddenly, the tin tile they were on snapped and buckled, skidding down the roof on the divots of the other shingles as orange sparks tailed their new sled. In an instant, they were on one of the flying buttresses, sliding down the ramp as the distance between the trio and the decorative tower at the stone braces end rapidly shrank.

 

Thankfully a well timed leap left them hanging by the hunchbacks hand as the tin shingle rocketed through the decorative towers archway and flew an incredible distance before crashing somewhere in the city, the trial of orange sparks getting nearly every soldier's attention as they meandered off to search for the object. Free of danger, Quasimoda dropped to the height of the windows, the streets of Paris only a good ten feet below.

 

They only just managed to hide from a guard that was strolling by, torch in hand as they scrambled behind a saint. The soldier kept walking past and everyone released a collective sigh of relief.

 

“I hope I didn’t frighten you.” The woman smiled meekly at the gypsy, who only chuckled.

 

“Trust me when I say I’ve seen scarier.” He put his own passenger onto the ground and the little white goat tipped over, his legs straight as fence posts. “But I can’t say Djali enjoyed it.” He remarked picking up his companion again.

 

“I’ll never forget you, Monsieur Esmerald. Thank you,” She trailed off and turned away from the raven haired teenager. “For everything.” She finished, her face going red with blush again. A tawny hand held her chin as the gypsy turned Quasimoda’s head to face his. “What is it?”

 

“Come with me.” He offered, a tone of joy clearly evident. “Come with us, to the Court of Miracles, leave this place.” The teenager held her large hands in his smaller ones.

 

“No,” Quasimoda quickly answered with a shake of her head. “I’m never going back out there again. You saw what happened,” She paused, rubbing a hand against the cold, worn stone that was like her in nearly every way. “This is the only home I’ve ever known. I can’t just leave. I would be like, like…” She trailed off, Esmerald nodded with understanding.

 

“Leaving a part of yourself.” He said. “I understand.” SIlence passed between the two for a short time before the mischievous grin resurfaced on the gypsy’s young face, her emerald orbs shining in the darkness of the night as another idea formed in his mind.

 

“Then I’ll come and see you.” He concluded moving a foot closer.

 

“But there are soldiers. You’d get caught.” Quasimoda argued.

 

“I’ve skirted them this long, right?” He joked with a glance at the square where the soldiers were beginning to converge once more, the fate of the flying orange object and the damage it did being decided as not worth the trouble.

 

“But next time you have even less of a chance. They won’t underestimate you.”

 

“Well then I’ll come after sunset when those guards are passed out from ale.”

 

“But you saw me ringing those bells, there’s no way they’ll be drunk enough to-” She cut herself off and huffed, realizing arguing with Emerald wasn’t worth the trouble when the gypsy always had a way. Gypsies always had a way. “Whatever’s good for you.” She agreed, nodding her head.

 

With that, Esmerald removed a cord that was hanging around his neck, the object on the end just barely hidden beneath the wilted collar of his poet's shirt. “Thank you, my friend. But in case you ever need me or should change your mind about leaving, this is for you.” He held the necklace to the hunchback, who blinked at the object in confusion.

 

“How does it work? Is it magic?” She questioned weighing the object in her misshapen hand.

 

“Only to the person who knows how to use it. Just remember: When you hold this woven band, you hold the city in your hand.” He stated with an heir of mystery to his tone as Quasimoda studied the object with fascination.

 

It was shaped like an almond, the twigs artfully bended to form the frame of the band. It’s string was embroidered with delicate and dark glass beads that layered on the cooler end of the color spectrum in indigoes, violets, and greys. Within the band was a grid-like twine that was slightly frayed, but still strong. A long cobalt blue yarn ran along the center, splitting into two at the center and converging around a miniature ivory cross before twisting into a straight line once more at the opposite end of the twig frame, red and yellow beads forming barriers over the blue yarn. To the right of the cross, just across the blue barrier, a black and white bead the looked somewhat like a ship's wheel was entwined on a corner of the grid. It was delicate and intricate, but apparently was useful. Quasimoda put on the necklace, tucking the band beneath her tunics neckline as Esmerald had.                  

 

“Hurry.” She said after moment passed, the laughter of guards drawing nearer. “You must go.”

 

“I will Quasimoda.” He nodded in compliance and scooped up Djali, who was beginning to stir from his fainting spell. “Thank you.”

 

The hunchback didn’t realize he was kissing her until he had disappeared into the streets, a thick fog closing around the street as she could only sit there in shock, a hand pressed to her cheek where the gypsy had kissed her. That was the first kiss Quasimoda ever remembered having gotten.

  
With a grin on her face, she pulled herself up and climbed back to Notre Dame, a newfound amount of strength allowing her to expand her leaps, dare with her jumps. She couldn’t explain it. But something told her to follow this warm feeling. It was like Heaven’s Light. 


	8. Heaven's Light/Hellfire

So many times, she lamented looking out at the expanse of Paris from the South tower of Notre Dame, her ginger locks spilling in the breeze and the pale light of the moon. So many times she’d looked into the streets and watched a happy pair grow throughout the years. She’d watch them shout and scold, she’d watch them scorn and jeer, but every so often there was a pang of jealousy in her deformed body as she longed to experience that same feeling she’d never put thought into or payed any mind to until now.

 

Until Esmerald had kissed her.

 

She was a demon's spawn, cursed by God to look this way when there was nothing she could improve upon or do to change it. She was doomed for some kind of sin her mother had partaken in when she was in the womb. Before she’d held ire in her heart, blamed either herself or her gypsy mother for her troubles. But now she felt at peace for once. Not because she’d changed her mind, but because as much as her mother had abandoned her, she couldn’t wished a burden like being a hunchback on a child. Nobody could’ve. Quasimoda just didn’t think there was enough bad in the world that someone would want to deform a baby, the most cherished, loved, and innocent thing in the world. But she was no longer a baby, and that meant she could be hurt and more than often was.

 

But now someone had shown the ultimate symbol of affection short of things she wouldn’t voice out loud. Someone out there loved her. And he was so perfect, she couldn’t even begin to describe what she wanted now. She’d gone from desire to dizziness to terror to regret and back to terror again before finally reaching a new feeling she’d never honestly experienced in the way she did.

 

Growing up she had many girl crushes on boys that wandered around Paris, but these quickly fizzled out under Frollo’s watch, warning her time and time again they could never reciprocate. Eventually she’d come to believe it herself. She wasn’t meant for such luck when she was needed to ring the bells.

 

“Speak of the devil.”

 

She sighed and looked at the small clock that was pegged into one of the columns by Frollo after she’d noticed one too many times a younger hunchback was behind on time when she was supposed to be ringing the bells. The carving she’d been immersed in paid dearly for her mistake and as far as she knew was still in the square today, the judge having tossed it from the rafters in anger. The clock was still five minutes to seven.

 

Given her skills, Quasimoda let a small grin cross her face. She could at least start something in five minutes. Pushing herself from the rail of the rafter, she ignored the chatting of the gargoyles in the next room as she set to work on a piece that she’d need to hide later.

 

Taking a block and her carving knife from the table, she blew any stray shavings away and slid the blade along the wood, repeating the motion as the clock ticked down. Slowly but surely, a torso and head began to form. Eyes focused on the crown of its head, she used the tip to whittle dunes of hair that shrouded the figure. Its chest was form fitting and arms were thick, like the mighty pillars carved from entire tree trunks. She finished the outline when an absurd little chime sounded right in the middle of her hobby, making her grind the tip of the knife along the wooden figures left arm. She didn’t curse, but she groaned and threw the figure down.

 

The bells pealed and echoed in the tower as the hunchback marveled in her clumsiness. The real Esmerald didn’t have a gaping scar on his left arm and it irritated her to no end. This sort of thing had happened before, and like all those other times she continued to whittle the block anyway, seeing no point in tossing the nearly complete figure.

 

The gargoyles marveled in her creation as she began to paint it to reflect the true man who’d shown her so much, her face contorted in concentration as she swirled the purples and pale greens until they became the shade she could use. His eyes seemed to sparkle in the light, the gold leaf she’d used sparingly going all to the gypsy boy and his golden adornments. Like any god, he needed to be treated carefully.

 

Through this, she found herself humming a tune as a smile worked its way along her face, her little statuette nearing completion as she strolled to the rafters edge, a moonlit Seine dancing it's reflective waters across the multistory homes and apartments.

 

 _“So many times out there, I’ve watched a happy pair, of lovers walking in the night,”_ She soft voice echoed in the tower as she stroked a royal purple into his pants.

 

 _“They had a sort of glow around them, it almost looked like Heaven’s Light.”_ The hunchback set little Esmerald down on the edge and went over to her table realizing in that moment she’d had so many couples in her little Paris. It was the city of love, after all.

 

 _“I knew I’d never know,”_ She sang and pressed two large beefy arms on the table. _“That warm and loving loving glow, and though I wish with all my might…”_ With two people near, she nudged them into one another until the woman was leaning on the man, their little smiles making her feel weak once more as she looked across the little square to herself.

 

 _“No face as hideous, as my face,”_ Her hand gently lifted the figure to the light of the night's sky. _"_ _Was ever meant for Heaven's Light,”_ With a sad gaze she pulled her self portrait down from the warm light of the sky, knowing someone like her couldn’t have that same experience.

 

And yet, she looked back at the rail where Esmerald stood near complete. He was still there. He was a true friend to someone so ugly. His smile was there, joyful and snarky like his true form. _“But suddenly an angel has smiled at me, and kissed my cheek without a hint of fright.”_ Before she could realize it, her hand was closed around the figure as she carried to its new home and placed it on the bridge.

 

 _“My cold dark tower seems so bright,”_ She reached for her own figure and removed it from the square, sliding it onto the bridge beside the gypsy boy he so adored. _“I swear it must be Heaven’s Light!”_

 

A smile shone in the light as she climbed up the steps to do something she hadn’t done in a long time. She had an hour before she was needed again. She spent that hour as she pleased, up on the roof of her tower, looking up at the stars and heavens above, pride coursing through her bones with someone she cared about in her life. For once, she truly felt at peace.

 

The peace only lasted a moment before a loud crash came from downstairs, and the hunchback sighed before choosing not to ignore it and investigate. It was her home, after all. 

 

Her hands dug into the wooden rafters as she took the scenic route through the bell tower, swinging from beam to beam and waiting with baited breath for the maker of the sound to reveal itself. It could’ve been anything. A pigeon, or Leon, perhaps. Instead, she got a fair bit of surprise when a blinding flash of gold hit her vision, the smouldering torch the soldier's hand casting a long, buff shadow across the walls of the tower. She released a low growl and allowed herself to slink down the columns until her shoes brushed the worn wooden planks. 

 

That peace was gone, and of course it had to be someone else, a  _soldier_ , no less, coming into her and everyone’s sanctuary to mess everything up. Of course, Esmerald was most likely out of harm’s way for the moment, but they couldn’t have noticed his absence that quickly… could they? 

 

With a tough choice between being courageous or groveling and begging for forgiveness, Quasimoda narrowed her gaze as the golden soldier seemed even more familiar. The shock of straw blond hair only served to remind her that this wasn’t just any old man of Frollo’s guard. It was - Pheobus? Phebre? Something like that anyhow, - the captain of the guard and highest authority aside from her mistress herself. In two decades Quasimoda had seen more captains than Christmases. So far this girl was only the third female of that rank under the judge’s command, and the other two had fallen pregnant and were ousted before their first year. This girl didn’t seem as promising as the others, and with that in mind, the hunchback hid in the shadows of the columns, waiting for the perfect moment to surprise her. 

 

She was a foot behind the captain before she apparently realized the ginger was there, and whirled around to face her, sword safely in her home per the archdeacon’s orders. It was a ruse with some truth to it. She’d come into the cathedral under the guise of coming to pray. Sneaking up those winding steps and finding a way to do it quietly was practically impossible, but it was still done with no suspicion on the holy man’s part as his eyes were shut for the beginning of Confiteor, his incense filled thurible swinging lightly as if guided by a gentle breeze. 

 

She’d had things to confess that night, but not to God. 

 

“What is your name?” The deformed woman questioned with an accusatory growl as Phoebe’s gauntlet closed around the empty space of air where her sword should’ve been. She’d had no intentions of using it, but it would’ve been nice to have some security. 

 

“Phoebe.” She answered. “Captain Phoebe.” She took a step back as the hunchback took a step forward. 

 

A sickened feeling was swelling in her stomach, but it was a thrilling rush of adrenaline as she bored deep into the gold plated trophy of her mistress, a fine example of everything Quasimoda herself wasn’t. 

 

“Well,  _ Captain Phoebe _ ,” She flaunted the title with as little jealousy as she could allow enter her tone. Something about this girl left a sour taste in her mouth, and she didn’t like it. “I saw you get led out of this church by the archdeacon. Your kind aren’t welcome in the church; much less up here!” 

 

“But your kind are.” Phoebe shot back before immediately regretting her choice of words. 

 

“ _ My  kind?! _ ” She shouted. 

 

“That’s not what I meant-” 

 

“Get out! Out!” Quasimoda grabbed the torch from the captain with a beefy hand and waved at it at her as if she were attempting to ward away a wicked spirit.

 

“Please, I don’t want any trouble, I just wanted to see Esmerald!” She dodged the burning club as she was being led out of the tower by force. 

 

“He is no concern of yours!” The deformed woman growled as they reached the spiral staircase. “Sanctuary! You should know what that means, seeing as you trapped him here!”

 

“I knew what it meant!” The captain snapped. “But I wasn’t trying to trap him here, I was trying protect him! I mean him no harm!” 

 

Her eyes narrowed with a vicious hate that the captain didn’t know was possible before that night, a feeling of protection gleaming in the young hunchbacks eyes. It was almost as if she cared for him. 

 

“ _ Get out!!! _ ” She screamed and got the torch within an inch of the blondes face before Phoebe recalled her dirk, impaling the wooden torch with the shining silver blade and stopping the adopted hunchback from doing anything more before she hurt her. Well, with the torch, at least. Her other hand was clasped around the cobalt blue of the captains coarse cape. Despite this, however, Phoebe wasn’t the least bit afraid. She’d subdued her for the moment, and would use that moment to make her statement in a way that the possibly feeble minded hunchback could understand. 

 

“Tell him from me, Quasimoda,” She used the name that fit Frollo’s vague description. “That I’m sorry. I didn’t have any other choice. I may have trapped him here, but it was the only way I could keep him safe from Frollo and her goons.”

 

“Your goons.” The hunchback reminded her in a low, hushed voice, the gleam of hostility replaced with a healthy green hazel that reflected only innocence for a moment before hardening like cement.

 

“My goons, fine.” She corrected herself with the tiniest of groans. “But I’m telling the truth. I don’t want him locked away and at her mercy. Can you tell him that, from me?”

 

The ginger haired hunchback scowled at her, consideration visible on every inch of her face as her bottom lip curled under her bucked front teeth. “ _ Her _ mercy.” She echoed. “You’re talking about Mistress?” 

 

Phoebe stifled a chuckle. “Well who else did you have in mind?” 

 

“But you’re captain of the guard.” She argued. “Since when do you disobey her?” 

 

“Since when do  _ you? _ ” The blonde countered as the realization of what she’d done set in on Quasimoda. She’d cavorted with the most hated gypsy in all of Paris, and helped him escape her mistress’s clutches. It wasn’t so bad, though. After all, Mistress could only kill her once. 

 

Phoebe seemed to notice the forlorn look of disappointment on her face. “So he’s touched you too?” She felt herself nodding without even realizing it. “Can you just tell him what I said?”

 

The ginger huffed, her gaze falling to the floor. “Only if you go.”

 

“I will.” Phoebe answered, looking at the ground beneath her, the intricate swirl of the gray marble reflected the narrowed look in her amber brown pupils. “But first, could you put me down?”

 

As if just noticing her bicep had lifted the grown woman clear from the ground, Quasimoda glanced between Phoebe and the floor before relinquishing her grip, noticing she was a full head shorter at the slope of the stairs. It hardly surprised her she could lift that much. The bells easily weighed fifty times what the captain did. Her dirk slid back into her heel, and the blonde took a deep breath as if being beaten by the bell ringer was a blow to her pride (and it actually was, but not by much). She smoothed out the cobalt blue cape before starting down the steps quickly, the chants of the alter boys growing closer with each passing second. 

 

But suddenly, she turned around and looked at the hunchback. “Also,” She started. “Tell Esmerald he’s quite lucky.” 

 

“What for?” Quasimoda blinked, the torch still against the stone wall as if the dirk hadn’t moved. Phoebe grinned slyly. 

  
“To have someone like you to protect him.You’re an invaluable friend, Quasimoda.” With that, the gilded guard hurried down the steps and out of her sight, much to her relief. Phoebe seemed decent enough, but there was always that uneasy feeling.

  


***

 

Frollo stood in the bathing light of the full moon, the darkness of the night and the world only kept away by the fireplace that crackled, glowed, and provided enough warmth for the entire Palace of Justice. At least, the parts that mattered. Her vast apartment within these walls was a tradition, the place to be occupied by the head judge of the facility, and since she assumed power nearly four decades ago, little had changed since when she first stepped into the hall and imagined the possibilities this place could have with a woman's touch.

 

The few things she never did change were the stone walls and floors, though she easily could’ve with one order. They were dark, they were cold, they were uncomfortable, but she never cared. She was always keeping the tender warmth of the hearth going whenever she was at the apartment and in some cases ordered guards to keeping the fire going should she leave at night for any reason in particular. The dreary atmosphere of the halls were brought up a bit by the many tapestries she’d hung on the wall from kingdoms conquered by her country many years ago, but it did little to change the feeling of darkness that many people said came not from the room, but from its sole occupant.

 

It bothered the judge every so often when she sat down by the fire, that feeling of darkness and unholy demons just waiting to do her in within the walls of her own home. But there was faith within the warmth of God, within the warmth of eternal bliss he promised to the pious. That warmth of the promise kept Frollo from ordering tons of white wood paneling to cover the rough stone, and at that moment with the tolling of the bells and the echoes of monks in the holy structure that sat merely a few streets away, Frollo wished she’d done away with the darkness in her home long ago.

 

Though it wasn’t because she’d grown tired of it. In fact, on any off day the stone seemed to comfort her because even after all that went wrong, there was a likeness of herself within the stone she often felt mighty enough to compare herself to. Stone, like her, was strong. It was used in many great civilizations. It fueled the need for construction on nearly every continent. And most importantly, these stones, like herself, were weathered, old, but far from past their prime. They’d witnessed and experienced many men before her crumble and crack with age whilst she remained strong and hearty, and like her, she’d had past tribulations that would make most men quiver in their breeches before dropping dead from failure.

 

No, it wasn’t because she grew tired of it. It was because she’d just learned to fear it.

 

In the judge's eyes fear was a strange little thing that never reared its head in her presence, remaining in her opinion quivering and moping on the ground, to be afraid of her. However on rare occasions like tonight, the darkness acted as fuel to the anxiety within her troubled thoughts and feelings. It was trying to beat her, force her to submit and crumble. She found solstice in the holy orange glow, but when confronting the one source of light that could vanquish that fear, like it always had…

 

Her fireplace apparently had different ideas.          

 

Within the crackling fires that spiraled and burned within the ashy pit of the hearth, there were visions. There were vision forged not from Frollo’s imagination, but from the most unholy of demons, the Devil himself. The flames whispered in the smoke that escaped the chimney, soft voices echoing in the vast hall as the grey haired woman stared in surprise and confusion, unsure what to do.

 

 _Claudia,_ they whispered, drawing her into examine the image before her. The voice was a soft tenor, a near singsong voice that was painfully familiar to her. She squeezed her eyes shut as the heat began to touch her skin, causing pinpricks of pain.

 

 _Claudia,_ it repeated, growing slightly as the embers began to swirl and dance. Frollo struggled as she fought to turn away, to ignore the vision she knew was trying to lull her.

 

 _Claudia._ The voice became serious as a strong stinging came from her eyelids, begging her to give in, to sneak a glance when she knew she couldn’t. The pain hurt like nothing she’d ever felt before, and it unsettled her to no end.

 

But in moments, her resolve crumbled. Her eyes twitched open as reflected her worst fear back at her. A choked scream emanated from her throat that she hushed, unable to take the chance of the echo carrying.

 

In the twisting flames she saw a figure that bore into her eyes, his composition twirling elegantly like he had that very morning to match the glow of the embers and ash that rose from the burning wood. His soulless, dark eyes peered at her, the whispers coming back to get her to come closer. To feel the warmth he could give her. To experience the feeling of comfort and love that he could provide.

 

It wasn’t the gypsy. It couldn’t be, she knew it couldn’t be. It was a demon that took his form, and was beckoning her to fold, the give in to that feeling she’d never truly experienced even in near eighty years of celibacy.

 

Lust, one of the Seven Deadliest sins, and she was being tempted by it.

 

But it was the gypsy, he was calling her forth, and as much as it tore at her insides, Frollo admitted to herself she was actually being tempted, and she couldn’t back away. She couldn’t refuse those smouldering green eyes that sparkles like the crown jewels, like the spring green hills of the countryside. She couldn’t refuse the toasted tawny skin, she couldn’t refuse the deep black softness of his raven hair.

 

“Tell me Maria!” She shouted in the light. “Why do I see him dancing there?!” She very nearly broke. “Why do his smouldering eyes still scorch my soul?!”

 

Silence greeted her empty cries for answers. _“I feel him, I see him!”_ She sang as she struggled to back away. _“The sun caught in his raven hair, it’s blazing in me out of all control!”_

 

The realization slammed into her like the distant ringing of the evening bells, the visions of a fiery pit igniting as she watched the dancing fires whisper her name over and over again. It was like fire. But not just any sort of fire, the flames that never ceased to burn and refused to die; the whispers of temptation constantly there to guide willing away from the light of heaven and God’s good grace.

 

 _“Like fire!”_ Her voice cracked as her eyes widened with angered fear, her porcelain white teeth gritted as she felt a surge of strength within her. _“Hellfire!”_

 

The crackling flames seemed to leap from the hearth as if they understood her curse, her realization. The warmth became sinister, almost painful as lustful pricks at her skin multiplied, completely unstoppable in the face of her wrath like the gypsy himself.

 

 _“This fire in my skin; this burning,”_ Her fingers twisted around the lilac chiffon as she rubbed to her cheek, the soft caresses reminding her of the gypsy’s sweet attraction to her. _“Desire,”_ She identified with a hushed tone as if to not admit it to anyone other than herself and God. _“It’s turning me to sin!”_

 

She whirled away to the crackling fire as the voices of many filled the dark hall, the faceless red hoods chanting one phrase that haunted her deep within her elderly bones. _“Mea Culpa!”_ The millions chanted in unison as the judge screamed in agony, regaining her composure only slightly in order to face her accusers like she faced all the others: with pride and more importantly, reason.

 

“It’s not my fault!!!” Frollo’s yells echoed in the vast rafters as the hooded figures only repeated their message. “I’m not to blame!!” She countered, a bit stronger as her feet began to move.

 

“It t’was the gypsy boy, the _witch_ who set this flame!!” Frollo cried as she ran through the crowd, clawing at her gray locks in agony as their voices choruses in harmony.

 

“It’s not my fault!” Her voice suddenly strained as she stopped running and turned to face them all, outnumbered as she was. “It’s not my fault if in God’s plan,” The hooded figures seemed to deflate and topple into the garments they were. _“He made the devil so much stronger than I am!”_

 

Her arm stretched out as the red clothes swirled and danced around her, glowing with heat at the orange flames of hell enveloping her; pulling her forth into the fiery cauldron of sin and eternal damnation. Her will was near its breaking point as she felt her feet nearly lift free from the floor, the powers of the unholiest demon of all showing her she was quite close to becoming a hellcat; too close.

 

But a force seemed to keep her on the ground, just beyond the reach of the fire. Frollo realized it was none other than Maria, answering her prayers and saving her from her lust, pulling her back for one more chance.

 

A realization came over her as she stared into the fire, a newfound rage boiling in the pit of her stomach before rising to her head. It wasn’t her fault. The enchanter had used some form of magic to make her feel these desires, to make her weak in the face of two warring and powerful adversaries. She was straying from good and turning to the hellish warmth of evil. All because of Monsieur Esmerald.

 

 _“Protect me, Maria! Don’t let the incubus take me, don’t let his fire sear my flesh and bone!”_ The judge’s eyes narrowed in terror as the gypsy boy continued the dance before her, the distant call of her name weakening as the jangle of a tambourine echoed in the crackling of the dying embers. Her hand held the length of purple chiffon, the goldenrod moons and stars twinkling in the light of darkness that had nearly taken her captive.

 

Her voice boomed in the vast hall as she gave a strong request. _“Destroy Esmerald, and let him taste the fires of hell!”_ As if on cue, the boy within the flames went still as his smouldering eyes looked to the twirling flames he was created from. They grew wide in fear as the fire spread across his body as what they were, the effigy echoing an agonized yell that sent chills through Claudia’s spine.

 

There was suddenly a feeling of sympathy for the creature, the incubus that Frollo knew she couldn’t have with the trust of the all powerful protector of virgins saving her from the damnation of hell. She couldn’t watch him die without that feeling of lust overcoming her, raging within her like a storm of the harshest winters night.

 

 _“Or else let him be mine,”_ The dying fires released a blast of whispering smoke, the heat comforting as the gypsy boy left the fires, left the world of damnation, reached out for her. Asking for her help, for her mercy. For her dominance. _“and mine alone…”_ Tears pricked her eyelids as the handsome apparition pressed a kiss to her nose. The lust was gone, it was gone because he chose her over the fire. She reached out to pull him close, to make him hers.

 

But as realistic as it was, the smoking gypsy dissipated into nothingness as she touched him, revealing it was only an illusion. He’d rejected her advances, and she was angered once again. Years of experience taught people nobody wanted her angry.

 

Suddenly, the door to the hall opened, the massive wooden door clanging on the cold stone wall as the vague shadow of a guard stood in the light of the moon, his shadow stretching along the infinitely long room. Frollo whirled around to face him, neither being able to see one another very well from the distance, for which she was more than thankful. In her state the last thing she wanted was someone seeing her; in her weakest moment. Nothing he could say could make her feel worse.

 

“Mistress,” He said solemnly. “The gypsy has escaped.”

 

Except that.

 

“ _What?!_ ” Her voice was hushed but it carried across the cavernous room just as well.

 

“He’s,” The armored man gulped. “he’s nowhere in the cathedral, ma’am. He’s just…” He trailed off, obviously terrified of her wrath. “Gone.”

 

Immediately, she felt the world begin to spin, a wrinkled hand brought to steady her vision. It couldn’t be possible. That gypsy was completely surrounded at every door, window, crevice and cranny. There should’ve been no possible way of escaping with nearly every soldier in Paris standing less than ten feet from the cathedral in every possible place.

 

“How?” She demanded harshly despite the sudden bout of lightheadedness.

 

The guard shuffled in his spot, his gaze falling to the ground. He remained silent in the face of her order.

 

She stamped her foot on the ground, the tin plated buffoon jumping at the echo his mistress had grown used to over the decades. _“How?!_ ” Her shrill voice boomed.

 

“We don’t know, your honor. The archdeacon came out of the church less than ten minutes earlier saying he couldn’t find the gypsy anywhere. He checked every alter, every room, he even had Quasimoda’s account and she couldn’t offer anything useful.”

 

“That figures,” The judge huffed beneath audibility. Her adopted daughter could hardly indulge in learning the alphabet. How could she suspect she’d see anything worth seeing?

 

“We’re readily awaiting orders, mistress.” The guard cleared his throat.

 

“Get out you imbecile. You are to await orders tomorrow morning. Until then you and your men will leave me to myself. Am I clear?” She snapped.

 

“Yes ma’am.” The guard nodded feebly and closed the door, leaving her alone once more with the Virgin Maria. She turned tail from the door and marched back to the fire, her dull eyes sparking with anger.

 

“I will find him. I’ll find him if I have to burn down this entire city and leave ashes in its wake!” She yelled into the fireplace as the length of chiffon was crushed in her vise-like grip.    

 

 _“Hellfire, dark fire!”_ She sang into the cavernous fireplace, the vision of the gypsy gone. _“Now gypsy it’s your turn!”_ Her bony finger clutched the soft fabric as if she held her tempters heart in her hand, ready to crush it into nothingness; into cold, bigoting ash. _“Choose me or, your pyre,”_

 

Her arm swung to the dancing orange flames, throwing the sparkling fabric into the heat as if she held the power within her to sentence Esmerald to hell. _“Be mine or you will burn!”_

 

Purple flames licked around the purple fabric, igniting and turning it to ash in only seconds. But instead of fabric, Frollo only saw the gypsy, a morose feeling replacing her sadness as she saw that shadows of judgement rising to her again, their willowy black shadows rising on the stone wall as she back towards it, hand clutched to her heart as it rocketed around her chest.

 

“God have mercy on him,” She said as her hands touched the warm wall and she jerked away, a feeling of weakness overcoming her once again. “God have mercy on me,” Her eyes sparkled with silent tears in her failure.

 

But resolve returned quickly. She knew she could beat this, but only if she rid herself and the city of the boy who haunted even her trusted fireplace and tempted her beyond the will of God. And she would find him. She would give him his choice. And she hoped above all else he’d make the right one.

 

 _“But he will be mine, or he,”_ Her hands left her chest as they drew towards the fireplace, the dancing smoke refusing to leave the kindled flames and embers.

 

 _“Will,”_ Her teeth gritted together as her knees began to buckle. _“Burn!”_

 

The shadows of the holy men covered her pale, elderly form in darkness as she fell to her knees, vowing to save herself and Esmerald. But only if he chose her over the fire. And he would, she knew he would. Or he would burn away in the fiery cauldron of hell like the demon he was. It was a forbidden lust, but it could be cured.

  
All she needed now, was Monsieur Esmerald.   


	9. Paris Is Burning

Frollo’s carriage rolled into the square before Notre Dame, the early morning light casting a massive shadow through the soft grey overcast. The judge had attempted to pretend she didn’t notice the shroud of darkness, but her will and stubbornness were remarkably weakened this very morning, as were most of her limbs and judgement. The night before had been worthy of a trip to hell and back. The imaginary warmth of Monsieur Esmerald disturbed her every movement, her every thought, her every glance. The tawny glow to his skin permeated every earthly sight and made the finest treasures about as valuable as the dullest dross. She couldn’t do anything properly, the spell of lust surrounded her so. Needless to say, the unified clatter of pikes to cobblestone really snapped her awake, and reminded her this was in fact a fixable problem. Her hand pushed the door open in an effort to seem lady-like, and less authoritary, but it backfired and ended up making a sound the echoed within the square and very nearly snapped the door from its hinges, her desire to be safe was so strong.

 

Her mistresses bleary grey eyes were a welcome sight to Phoebe, who led the troop of guards selected to bear todays tasks. Her indifferent face was completely unreadable as it always was with the judge, but beneath the surface there was a feeling of contentment. Should the judge not really be in the mood to order her and her men about the city today, she would’ve gladly exchanged the time for going riding or seeing the rest of the city as a non-authoritarian figure that garnered minimal willing respect. There were, in fact days when Phoebe would’ve gladly taken a day off doing things like a normal person.

 

Her gauntlet tapped lightly to her helmet. “Bonjour, Ma’am.” Her eyes drifted to the wrinkles within the usually stretched pale skin.

 

“Bonjour, Captain.” She responded with an attempt to hide a massive yawn.

 

Silence passed for a long and awkward moment as Frollo rubbed her eyelids and straightened her hat in a pathetic effort to make herself more presentable when it simply couldn’t be helped.

 

“Is something the matter, Ma’am?” Phoebe pressed as she lifted the vise a bit higher with a golden arched eyebrow.

 

The judge's response was swift as the gliding of a dove. “Of course not.” The sternness in her voice snapped. “Why would anything be wrong,” She glared.

 

Phoebe felt her face turning a shade of pink as she thanked the lord Frollo couldn’t possibly see her expression from the vantage point she held upon the steps of her spired and dark carriage. “I just assumed you looked a bit peaked, Ma’am.”

 

“And pray tell,” Her lips puckered. “why would that be anything of your concern, Captain?”

 

Phoebe sighed slightly. “It isn’t, Ma’am. But your well being is a matter of concern to me as your guard.”

 

Frollo groaned darkly. “If you must know,” she snorted as if she had a head cold in the most unlady-like way possible. “I had a bit of trouble with the fireplace last night.”

 

Phoebe was about to question what sort of trouble, but figured it wouldn’t get her any answers aside from a reprimanding or something of the sort. While she was more than welcome to care about her superiors well being, she didn’t really, and never had. As long as her orders weren’t rash or dangerous, Phoebe figured it was always best to play one's opponents carefully. And in Frollo’s case, very carefully. Silence passed again until she offered her condolences.

 

“You requested we wait until morning, Ma’am?”

 

The judge massaged the wrinkles on her forehead. “What?” Her voice was annoyed.

 

“You ordered that we leave you alone and wait until morning to receive orders, correct?” Phoebe’s lips pressed into a thin line.

 

“Yes, I did.” Frollo groaned.

  
“And those orders are?” She pressed and through the thin layer of gold plating she swore she could hear some of her men chuckling at her attempt to guide the pious woman out of her exhausted stupor.

 

Her response was cold and snappish, obviously not taking interest in the captain's attempt at playing coy. “Find the gypsy boy!”

 

***

 

His back ached in the small crevice between the heavy wooden bread case and the thick, yeast scented wall of the bakery. He’d been awake for nearly the entire night, forced to sleep standing up in the least comfortable place that the owner could offer short of a jail cell or the streets. Of course, being squished between the crevice of a shelf and kept out of sight was obviously in his best interest for now, and it was most certainly better than anywhere outdoors not only for the chances of Frollo finding him, but also the fact that it was early January and hardly an appropriate time to be spending the night outdoors out of choice. It was warm, it was safe. The view and space wasn’t acclaimed, but there was the ever present scent of bread and yeast that gave him a sense of comfort. He could probably count on something for the road if the baker was as generous that some said.

 

Being positive was also in his best interests, so he did his best to ignore the millions of pinpricks that were now taking over his comatose legs. Djali nuzzled into the microscopic crevice between his shins, bleating softly as Esmerald forced himself to bend as much as he could to soothe his companion's jittered nerves.

 

This failed to do anything as the door was suddenly banged on by a force so loud the gypsy boy jumped and Djali began to quiver. It repeated once more as Esmerald tried to shrink against the wall, a stone dropping into his stomach in terror. There was nothing else in all of Paris that made a sound like that, and he was quite sure everyone within the city had grown to fear the sound of rattling iron, much less a battering ram.

 

The door was snapped from its hinges and flew a full five feet across the room, the baker whirling around with his peel flying from the clay oven. The half baked blob of dough took flight and hit the wall beside him, but this accident proved fruitless in stopping the swarm of twenty soldiers that flooded into the business like the plague of locust in the book of genesis. The tin plated men offered absolutely no explanation to their previous actions or to the bakers shouts and accusations. They seemed to phase through him completely as though he wasn’t even there.

 

And then, Esmerald was forced to watch from his vantage point behind the shelf as the guards began turning the place upside down, using their gauntlets like hammers and smashing everything breakable within reach. Tables, shelves, culinary tools, all of them were laid to waste in a matter of moments. The baker was struck with silent awe as he simply backed into a corner, and watched the destruction of his livelihood unfold. For the second time in twelve hours, the gypsy found himself panicking as he desperately prayed the guards wouldn’t think to overturn his hiding place.

 

He scooped Djali into his arms as the guards began destroying the raw ingredients as well, and one of them finally remarked what the meaningless destruction was about. “Find the gypsy boy!” The guard ordered. “Leave nothing unturned!”

 

He flushed pale in sheer horror, his hand closing around the little goats jaw as the creature quivered once more at the loud banging of a table being overturned. It was perhaps a saving grace that one of the buffoons dirks slashed through a bag of flour, and in less than five seconds a blinding cloud of white filled the shop and the echoes of ragged coughing sounded throughout the stone and wooden room.

 

Esmerald saw the opportunity, and ran for the nearest window. The sting of flour assaulted his eyes immediately as he tore the scarf from its position on his waist, stuffing to his face and leaving a purple stained view. of the cloudy store as the sound of tearing burlap only made the store whiter. Feeling around for anything, his fingers brushed the splintery wood of a bread peel. His free hand closed around its handle, and clutched his companion a little tighter as he focused on the light from the window and swung.

 

The sound of shattering glass rung in his ears as he bounded forward. Almost instantly three small shards embedded themselves in his blackened feet and he let out a muffled, agonizing curse into his scarf. The clinging of iron plates seemed to buzz like a hive of agitated hornets as the guards began to move around the bakers blindly and stupidly, knocking each other and other things to the worn, white wooden slats.

 

He was airborne for a moment, the light of the world entering through his scarf as distant feelings of cuts made themselves known in the open air. The crunch of earth and grass roots was a beautiful feeling compared to that of the claustrophobic atmosphere of the bakers. His arms relinquished Djali before he smacked into the ground chest first, the breath leaving him as he squeezed his eyes shut in pain, his teeth practically cracking from the pressure he had placed on him.

 

Only ten heartbeats later urgent bleating caught his attention and he craned his head with squinted eyes. He uprooted fistfuls of weak grass blades as the gypsy managed to prop himself to his knees, his feet completely out of play for the moment. The earth and weeds gained dots of scarlet as Esmerald looked out from behind the corner of the ruined shop where his little goat was prancing near. What he saw made his green irises widen and his nostrils flare out.

 

He stared on as the guards led five gypsies out from the establishment and onto the cobblestone streets of Paris. Flour padded footprints seemed to leave an eternal mark for all to see. The men, women and one child were all brightly colored, the vibrant hue of their reds, greens, purples and blues only smothered in flour stains from the aggressive hold the guards held them in. The child was crying and the women looked more than ready to join them while the men of the group attempted to hold onto what dignity they had left, their dyed shirts and jackets puffed out not unlike that of a robin’s breast. Esmerald remained silent as the guards held them where they were for a painfully long moment, the devout citizens of Paris shuffling by as words of gossip were exchanged like valentines. The distant cambour of a horse's hooves sounded nearby and the gypsy sucked in a breath as he ducked out of sight once more, lifting his head back up only when it was quite clear the attention wasn’t focused on the wall he was hiding behind, it was on Judge Frollo as she made her way to the gypsies on her magnificently black stallion.

 

Her look was disdainful, as it always was, and sheltered in light shade beneath the goofy looking triangular hat. Her robes smothered the color of the gypsies like the dark clouds could smother the sun. Darkness seemed to encroach the street as distant thunder boomed to the east, the cloudy sky growing greyer by the moment. The crowds, now far from being interested in watching within eyeshot of Frollo, quickly disappeared into shops or their apartments to view from a safe enough distance.

 

Frollo smiled as she reached the straight line of gypsies, her confidence seeming to bloom in the dark atmosphere. “Well,” She began curtly. “I can see we’ve rooted out many of these gypsy vermin.”

 

The word vermin twisted a dagger through his stomach as he leveled a glare at her from his corner, still unwilling to take the chance of her seeing him.  

 

“Such a shame they go against the law.” She shook her head spitefully at them. “Stealing, polluting the streets and homes of innocent Parisians, devaluing God,” She scoffed finally.

 

One of the women began to whimper uncontrollably, her raven black locks shaking in quiet sobs. One of the men lifted his head, his eyes steely and determined as if he possessed the desire to say something, but did not do so as his gaze fell to the flour caked stones. The guards remained silent and Esmerald saw a glint of gold in the corner of his eye. Phoebe sat atop her own horse, her eyes dark and empty as if she were being mind controlled. There was no depth, no emotion. She bore the look of a soldier and it made Esmerald cringe to think he’d almost shared a kiss with her.

 

Something in the back of his mind called foul, something told him she didn’t want this to happen. But he knew it was only denial of the truth, that he still had some foolish fantasy where she was actually human and not just another product of the judges creation and ridicule.

 

“But thankfully, there is a saving grace to your many vices.” Frollo continued as a devious grin stretched across her pale, wrinkled cheeks. He had a feeling he knew exactly what would be asked of them. “Because I am in a generous mood today, I am willing make you an offer.”

 

“We don’t want any _offers_ from you.” One of the men growled savagely. Frollo raised a silver brow.

 

“Really, are you quite certain? All of you could leave here free citizens should you answer correctly to a simple question.”

 

A look of uncertainty passed over the adults of the group, and the outspoken one cleared his throat. “What sort of question?” He countered with a hint of tentative suspicion.

 

The judges smile became practically frightening, his lips twisted in a sickly sweet grin as if the answer lay behind a once impenetrable door that she now possessed the key to. Her spider-like hands crawled along the pockets of her judges robes and disappeared within the black envelope. Distant jingling filled the air as she removed something from within. The glint of something shiny was held in the palm of her hand, the coin work unmistakable.

 

“I know you gypsies are well connected, and I know you don’t earn much money.” The tone she used the word ‘earn’ in suggested she used the term as loosely as possible. “Which is why I’m offering ten pieces of silver per man, woman or child,” Her gaze fell to the sniffling young boy who was attempting to cower behind a woman who seemed to be his mother. “enough to sustain your… _brood_ , for over three months, as well as passage to anywhere in France.” She let the offer hang as it was while everyone seemed to wait with baited breath for the catch she was no doubt bound to spring.

 

“Provided,” She took a slight breath of content. “that you tell me where a certain gypsy is hiding.”

 

The mother, a lady with shining raven hair and a mauveine bandana tightened around the crown of her head, looked at the judge with a small glint of courage behind the deep brown of her pupils. “What is his name, your honor?” She gulped.

 

“The gypsy’s name is Monsieur Esmerald. Fit, not a day past manhood, and works with a goat.”

 

Realization seemed to pass over all five of the gypsies faces, and their gazes lowered from the judge to the ground. Esmerald himself pressed against the stone wall and the pain of the glass shards in his feet left him for the moment, a lump of guilt rolling about his stomach as a rolling stone gathered moss. His teeth gritted and he held tight to Djali, trying to even level his breathing in an attempt to remain hidden.

 

“Not one of you will tell?” Frollo looked mockingly at them.

 

Even as he waited through the silence he heard the painful jeers of his morality echoing in his mind like a cave, telling him he was a coward, a weakling for remaining where he was when he could be stopping this right now, as the judge's patience continued to wear thinner. This wasn’t just some bell ringer picked picked on, these were his own people. There was a difference between the two incidents but this time he knew it would mean turning himself in, and that would lead to either rape, death, or more than likely both. He felt the muscles in his knees spazzing as he closed his eyes. His knees massaged the grass as he shuffled himself to the viewpoint of the guards. To turn himself in. There was no question to it.

 

“No.” A voice rang in his ears as his eyes shot open just short of him leaving his hiding place.

 

Everyone looked at the source of the refusal and it was, including the gypsy boy. It seemed more than familiar to him, and as he focused on the girl who’d openly refused the judges actually generous offer when a flash of recognition came over him. It was Raven, the girl who had been with him that fateful day he found trouble with the guards and was saved by Phoebe. Her chalmeau was nowhere to be seen, and he’d become so accustomed to seeing her playing it she seemed almost foreign without it. Dusty tears had streaked down her face, but her eyes were harder than the finest stone. Esmerald hadn’t known her all that well at the time, the teenager being only an occasional companion for when he danced in the streets.

 

She was his age, had long raven hair fitting to her name that was loose down her back, and the striped indigo and sienna skirt hosted minute amounts of gold bangles and a white poet's shirt that complimented her perfectly. Her eyes were crescent shaped and boasted a stunning stare that appeared every so often. Her musical talents were well acclaimed and had she chosen to make something of it, could’ve been very well off. Charcoal was drawn in thin dark rings around those eyes, giving her all the more volume as it accented the stare.

 

Frollo obviously wasn’t affected by it, although several guards and Phoebe tilted their helmet brims and tin plate caps as if the stare had captured their attention easily like moths drawn to light.

 

The judges lips were pursed, her mask of indifference barely shifted by the confident and defiant gypsy. “No?” She questioned with a mocking and inquisitive tone of voice.

 

“No.” Raven snapped once more with her thick accent and a violent shake of her head, raven locks spilling around her shoulders.

 

“And why not, dear?” She couldn’t have sounded more incriminating.

 

“Because Monsieur Esmerald is a gypsy; one of us.” Her bone-thin arm surveyed the group around her that shared her heritage and physical features. “Gypsies don’t turn in their own. And even if we did know, ten pieces of silver isn’t worth his life, and it never will be. Faction is a thick bond, your honor; far thicker than bond of marriage or bond of ideals. Romani blood courses through our veins, and nothing, not money, not torture, not death, will make us break that bond.”

 

Esmerald could’ve sweared he heard clapping in the distance that seemed to rattle the window panes. Nobody paid it any mind. Frollo’s darkening grey eyes bore deep into the confident girl, who stood her ground despite the obvious ramifications of what she’d said. Esmerald knew it was easy to make Frollo dislike you, and she was already on that list simply because her skin was a silk-like tawny and not sickly pale like hers. It certainly would be a miracle if she survived this arrest, much less the rest of her life.

 

Her bony fist closed around the gleaming silver pieces as it was obvious that there would be no one useful to aiding her maniacal search, and her withdrew the money back to the dark pocket with the order to lock every one of them in the Palace of Justice until further notice. They were quickly rounded up into a provided cart; and in moments, Esmerald swore he saw Raven look him directly in the eye from between the bars of the jail cell. Frollo then turned to her guards.

 

“Burn this establishment.” She ordered thrusting a torch into the hands of a beefy guard.

 

Esmeralds eyes seemed to open wide as in mere moments, the building was being devoured by hungry flames that worked their way up the four story row home. Screams of people above and around echoed as the gypsy boy immediately picked himself up and got as far away as he could from the burning building without his feet to carry him. Crawling proved to be slow, but the gypsy knew he really had no other option.

 

His new hiding spot for the moment was beside the Seine, the cackle of wood and the smell of smoke stinging his nose and eyes as he tried to ignore the guilt within him. Gypsies never turned in their own, that in itself was quite true. But it was a whole other story knowing he could’ve stood up for them.

 

For the moment, he thanked Raven in silence as he set to work extracting the shards of glass from his bloodied foot. The pieces had embedded themselves in the blackened and dirty flesh, but weren’t too deep. Cuts on his feet often happened as a result of being barefoot but Esmerald had never really given them too much attention as they healed rather quickly. This however, would require something better and ignoring it.

 

He barely had time to assess what the damage was before the distant sounds of horses and the rattling of imprisonment echoed down the street. Grabbing the rough blue blanket and Djali, he was quickly disguised. Despite this concealment, he made the conscious effort to shield his feet should the injury be telltale. Through the hood he saw the cart was now empty, and Frollo led the group, pointing a bony finger in the direction of the river. The guards and soldiers followed with disgusting, ale soaked slurs. He cringed beneath the shade of the cloak as the men passed him by with no acknowledgement to him whatsoever.

 

But suddenly, a glint of gold caught his eye. Phoebe’s horse stood only a foot from him, and Esmerald bit his tongue to hold in a gasp as he tried once more the shrink against the wall, repeating to himself he was but an old vagabond, not to be disturbed. Obviously she knew who was under there. Once upon a time he would’ve hoped she’d spare a coin or maybe a joke. But things were different. She’d been part of an attack. It may not have been willing for all he knew, but he still didn’t trust Phoebe, no matter what her intentions for him were. He glared at her through the fabric as she looked down at him. He wished he could blow his cover and drive her away with the dirk he kept in his pocket, but obviously that was a horrible plan.

 

She looked to the soldiers as they walked along in unison, their howls of directed laughter dying down as they got further away. Her boots clattered against the stirrup as she dismounted the horse, and walked up to the disguised gypsy with a disbelieving look on her face.

 

“Something the matter Monsieur?” She questioned.

 

Esmerald gave no answer. The captain seemed unphased by this, however, and took a few steps up to him. He shuffled away from where he sat by the wall, Djali quivering above him, skittish as he was. It was obvious he was trying not to blow his cover, but Phoebe wasn’t buying it. The soldiers chants were gone now, silence having overtaken the grey and drab street corner.

 

“I see your feet are injured.” She inquired as Esmerald released a silent curse that there was blood leading to where he now sat, however small the drops may have been. “Is there anything I can do?”

 

Djali shook his little white head within the hood of the patched and worn blanket, but the soldier only smiled cunningly at him. She removed her golden helmet, allowing the straw blonde strands of hair to spill out in the ponytail, as if she knew the headgear made her look all the more untrustworthy.

 

“You see,” She began as she walked back up to her horse. “I know what injuries look like from ten years abroad in war, and I know especially in a cesspool like Paris, it’s easy to die from them.” The blonde removed a bottle from a saddlebag. “I won’t heal you.” She turned back to Esmerald. “But I know you’ll see this wine is useful in more ways than intoxication.” With that, she placed the object on the cobblestones, and rolled it carefully to the vagabond.

 

His tawny hand wrapped in the blanket as he made the bottle disappear beneath his shroud. The captain then mounted her horse and left the gypsy to his own devices. It was a hasty disinfectant, was it would matter all the same in the end. When the young woman was out of sight, he scrambled further into the little alcove, the dancing waters of the Seine reflecting the tall homes above. Shade cast down on his figure as he shed the cloak and his companion.

 

He teeth molded into the cork stopper as the injured gypsy bit into it, the echo of the popping cork an unnecessary hinderer to his attempts at hiding. With little time wasted, his poured the sweet burgundy alcohol onto the three wounds, wincing with each stop and teary eyed by the end of it. The pain hardly served as a distraction to how he’d even obtained the wine. Phoebe knew he was there, and gave him something to heal injuries that could’ve either left him without feet for without a pulse, neither of which were preferable. What was there to her that he just didn’t trust?

 

“She’s a soldier.” Esmerald reminded himself as Djali shifted from his spot and nuzzled into his master, bleating softly as if saying _but she didn’t turn you in._

 

The gypsy boy snorted at his friend. “Djali, just because she didn’t turn me in now or before doesn’t make her any more trustworthy than her goons. She trapped me in that cathedral. If anything, I should be suspicious.”

 

The white goat rolled his eyes and snuffed dramatically, giving up on being devil’s advocate as his master began to dress his disinfected feet with makeshift bandages that quickly soaked up the blood and wine in a strange burgundy stain on the lilac cotton. Within a moment, he was moving again on his feet, taking slow steps that gradually became quick bounds and sprints that he had been capable of before. Djali quickly followed the teenager and in moments, they were off again to face the world, and Frollo.

 

***

 

Her gaze was fixated anywhere she could bear to look, her face as blank and pale as a freshly mined slab of slate. The keeping room of the miller's cottage was thick with the oder of straw, dirt, and fermenting produce that was hung to dry around the area. The gloomy light of the cloud filled day shone through the diamond-framed window, weary shadows gracing the dusty raw floorboards, and the sound of groveling was muffled only by her growing impatience for her superiors manners towards not only gypsies, but ordinary Parisians as well.

 

She’d attempted to keep her head held high ever since the judge had given the urgent order to find the gypsy boy that very morning. She’d tried to ignore the clawing feeling of guilt and moral injustice that was slowly eating away at her insides. She’d watched idly by as judge Frollo went to every house and establishment within the massive city of Paris, sending her men to break down the doors and smash every potential object that could hide Monsieur Esmerald from her practically satanic form of justice. Phoebe was forced to look on as nothing more than a pawn to the judge, her presence only necessary as a figurehead and nothing else. The guards hadn’t even noticed she’d stayed behind and passed a bottle of quite decent wine to the same person they were now hunting with vivacious enthusiasm. Granted, she was the only one who’d cracked Esmerald’s disguise, but it was obvious her presence was only superficial, and it bothered her to no end. It was a reminder that she wasn’t the real person in charge, just as the gypsy boy had blatantly said in the square that fateful day during the Feast of Fools.

 

“My men found this gypsy talisman on your property.” Frollo stated as her bony fingers held the incriminating evidence, a jeweled piece of vibrant pink silk, above the bulbous nose of the miller who was groveling on the floor of his own home. “Have you been harbouring gypsies?” Her tone was cold and accusatory.

 

There was another stench that Phoebe recognized coming from the man before them both. It wreaked of fear, and there was no hiding that scent. It plagued the men she’d led in battle, and the bloodsoaked wounds of her enemies were permeated with the telltale scent. Frollo obviously had that effect on people.

 

“Please, your honor,” The man’s eyes widened in terror. “our home is always open to the weary traveller!”

 

“Would any of those ‘weary travellers’ happen to be gypsies, peasant?” She continued as her eyes flashed with a light that reflected the grim circumstances the man had set up for himself with his simple excuse.

 

“I-I don’t know, your honor!” His head shook violently. “It’s never my place to pry!”

 

The captains teeth clenched as her brown eyes felt a cold layer of tears. She’d seen her father once grovel like this, before a tax collector. It was humiliating to watch as the man she’d been born from begged him for another stay of payment, the scent of lilac dull in her nose from behind the skirts of her mother. There was a boy that stood where she had once been, his confused face half shielded behind his own mother's dress. There was an intimate connection that was ever present in her life to this moment. It was excruciating to watch the same scene unfold twice.

 

“I am placing you and your family under house arrest until further notice.” Frollo declared as she shook the man’s grip from her black robes. “You are to remain within the walls of this hovel for the time being and are not to be seen off the premises. Should you disobey my orders, you’ll find a nice cell waiting for you in the Palace of Justice. Time shall tell if you are innocent, and should you be you have nothing to fear.”

 

With that, she turned and began to make her leave, the miller still on the ground as he watched his judge, jury, and executioner all in one leave him and his family to be trapped in their own home. Prisoners, be it there or at the Palace of Justice.

 

“But we are innocent!” He pleaded. “I promise you we know nothing of these gypsies!” He tried to reach the front door of the cottage, but Frollo had slammed the door shut on him before he could go any further.

 

She then relieved a standing guard of his pike and placed it over the doors locking mechanism, jamming it and leaving the miller and his family doomed to imprisonment for who knew how long this could last? Frollo had already interrogated, imprisoned, and burned half of Paris and it wasn’t even three in the afternoon. They guards had locked away more gypsies than they ever had before and no doubt the Palace of Justices walls would run red come the following week should she not find the gypsy boy. Guilt clawed at her, reminding herself she couldn’t stray from either of her allies. Was Esmerald worth helping if it meant everyone else suffered?

 

She shook the question from her head, not wanting to acknowledge her part in this plan anymore than she had to. It was bad enough to watch this unfold. It wasn’t as if it could get any worse. Frollo turned to Phoebe with her long fingers folded within each other.

 

“Burn it down.” She ordered simply. Well, forget not being involved.

 

“What?” Her voice was hard, grinding against the order with confusion and shock that seemed out of character around her superiors and more than likely was.

 

“Until it smoulders, these people are now enemies to the cause and must be made examples of. We cannot take any chances of these peasants influencing those around them, and they must be disposed of.”

 

“You make it sound so easy for them to do so.” Phoebe couldn’t keep herself quiet. “They’re literally locked in their home! How are they to do anything?”

 

“As I’ve said,” Her mistress's voice became snappish. “we cannot take any chances. The miller and his family have offered no proof to their innocence, and a gypsy talisman is enough to deem them worthy of damnation.”

 

Her teeth gritted tightly. “You are out of line, Ma’am. I was trained to fight actual enemies to Paris and her people, not to murder them based off of evidence that holds no ground. These people are innocent, and it’s anything but fair to sentence them to death without a trial.”

 

Frollo’s face puckered as her painfully wicked scowl trained itself of the captain like a hawk. “You were _trained,_ ” She flaunted the word as if it were the chains she bound her enemies with. “to follow orders and more specifically, to follow _my_ orders.” With that, she passed a torch from a guard to the captain, as if to give her one chance at proving herself.

 

The smouldering glow of the fire made her dizzy. meant a lifetime of comfort and admiration from those men she’d been handed who thought no more of her than anyone else. It meant she could earn the honor of anyone she wanted, she could actually have a chance to live well into elderhood, mother children, be a hero. But following her mistress’s orders now meant she would no longer be just captain of the guard in this conflict, but one of Frollo’s puppets. And what was admiration if people were too afraid of you to come within twenty feet or risk saying an incriminating word? There was a fine line between following orders and committing heinous acts to follow those orders. She had led troops to battle, seen much blood spilled. She’d killed before, but out of true cause; not some ridiculous witch hunt led by a woman whose idea of justice meant persecuting anyone who didn’t blindly follow and obey. But disobeying now most certainly meant death. There would be no funeral, remembrance or even mention of her name. It would be better to die against Frollo than ever murder the innocent.

 

Her gauntlet’s grip was tight and constricting as she walked over to the thatched roof, the orange flames dancing below the strands of mud and straw. With a swift motion of her hand, the torch was plunged into a barrel of drainage water, the orange flame hissing and dying as smoke and steam rose up to meet the darkness of the cloudy sky. Her gaze fixated on Frollo as her lips pressed to a thin line.

 

“Insolent coward.” The judge growled at her, obviously furious. “If you won’t follow orders, I’ll have to do them myself.” With that, she snatched a fresh torch from another guard and rode her horse over to the large windmill. Phoebe watched in horror as she set the next blade alight.

 

Almost instantly, the cheesecloth tarp of the blade burned and smouldered, climbing at a remarkable speed up the windmill and around the straw thatched roof of the miller's house. Embers and ash scattered like snowfall around the vicinity from the light breeze, the overwhelming heat radiating off the structure making everyone take a few steps back. In seconds, the first blade fell from the windmill, and the captain was forced to duck out of the way as it smashed into the ground, blacking the only door out of the cottage.

 

Instinct took over as she heard the cries for help within the structure, her eyes darting frantically about for any way in. Seeing her opportunity in the window to her right, she bound towards it and broke it open, tumbling into the burning building as heat immediately began to bake her body within her gold plated suit of armor. Working as fast as she possibly could, she scooped up the child from the ground he cowered upon as the miller helped his wife. Loud splintering echoed in her ears and she immediately picked herself up from the floor and sprinted for the door. Her thick boot collided with the wood of the door and with a resounding crack, it was broken from its hinges. Bending over the young boy to shield him from the falling embers, she darted out the front door with the two adults quickly following through the exit.

 

She barely got five feet before the miller relieved her of the child and took him off into the crowds. The family was safe. She had done the right thing. Of course, she’d forgotten momentarily the risks. The handle of a guard's sword bashed into her head, her dented helmet shielding the blow well enough not to give her anything permanent; at least she hoped it wouldn’t. Stars flashed before her eyes as her body careened forward to the mud and grass floor of earth, her straw blonde ponytail falling in lengths over her right shoulder and to the ground. The meaty hands of a guard closed around the back of her plating, and tugged her up to her knees. The cold, sharp sting of a blade hovered over the back of her neck, and the sound of pattering hooves entered her ears as the judge rode up to her.

 

She clicked her tongue scornfully. “You should know from your years of training, dear. The sentence for insubordination in the Armee de Terre is fifty lashes. However, seeing as we don’t have the time to cart you back to Paris for your punishment, I’m certain death will work out quite nicely.”

 

Phoebe felt her teeth cracking from pressure as she lifted her scowling face to the judge, the weight of the sword heavy on her neck as the sky began to turn red from the smouldering ruins of the millers cottage. Frollo sat high on her horse, her lips pursed in a quiet and confident smile.

 

“It really is a pity.” She finished her thought. “You’re a brilliant young lady. You could’ve been well off and remembered as a hero for generations to come, beside me. You’ve thrown away a promising career.”

 

“Beside you as what? A puppet?” She laughed mirthlessly. “I know what I’ve lost, and I’d rather die doing the right thing than spend the rest of my life wrapped around your creepy old finger. Consider it my highest honor, ma’am.”

 

Her eyes squeezed shut as she waited for the blade to slice through the tender flesh of her neck, the small hairs perking up as a tingling sensation passed through the former captain.

 

But instead of a beheading, she barely had time to look up once more as Frollo’s horse neighed loudly in terror and threw its rider off. Frollo was hardly affected, but that didn’t matter to her. The gasps and shouts of the crowd rung in her ears as she threw herself up and used her gauntlet covered hands against the guards, delivering a punch to the fat guard’s pudgy jaw, and an elbow to the guard holding the sword. The weapon and the men clattered to the ground as she felt the hinges of her armor suddenly give way, leaving her top section free and exposed to the world with the only potential padding her underwear and a white flax jacobite shirt. The tarnished golden piece luckily landed right on one of the marksmen and knocked him down. Frantically looking for someplace to run, Frollo’s horse did a full turn around before speeding back towards her.

 

Thinking fast, she lunged at the beast as it charged past her, her gauntlets grabbing hold of the saddle and the stirrup just in time to be picked up. The horses speed was quite remarkable in its spooked state, the beast taking no notice to the new passenger that obviously wasn’t Frollo. The galloping saddle shook her grip slightly, but Phoebe pulled herself on nonetheless.

 

The judge wasn’t amused as the stunt. “Get her you idiots! And don’t you dare hit my horse!” She ordered the marksmen.

 

In seconds as she neared the tall stone bridge that connected the east end of Paris to the countryside, a barrage of red feathered arrows began flying at her and the horse, the marksmen's attempts not to hit the bigger of the two obviously more challenging than Frollo thought it was. She was halfway across the bride and almost out of range when a stabbing pain entered her back, the arrow easily penetrating the thin fabric of her shirt. She yelled in agonizing pain as her hands slipped free from the reins, the feeling of dripping blood trailing down her back dissipating as she realized how close she was to the edge of the bridge.

 

Her chest connected with the cold, dew-soaked stone as the blonde ignored the sharp winces of pain as the barbed tip worked at dismembering the muscle and tissue with every movement she made. She dug deep into her strengths, the pangs of her injury grueling as she picked herself up to her knees, the sudden clatter of guards boots growing louder as she realized they were going to follow her. All she needed to do was make it to the bridge's edge. The rigid stone edges cut into her chest as Phoebe pulled herself up, and over the side of the barrier between her and a sixty foot drop.

 

The rush of air and sudden lack of arrows was jarring, and she tried to position herself to a point where she wouldn’t land on the arrow and risk pushing it further. The clap and sting of water leaking into her remaining armor made her weak, her eyes rolling into the back of her head as she entered the darkness of her mind.

 

***

 

His bandaged feet hardly had any pain to them as he crept quickly down the hill, his back pressed to the wall as more arrows descended into the deepest part of the river where the captain had fallen and sunken like a stone. There was a splash of gold in the stillness of the pond, and numerous trails of clouding red streamed to the surface with the remainder of bubbles. Esmerald panted with anxious fear as he looked up at the bridge above where five marksmen and judge Frollo stood at the edge, the latter looking down into the wall with her face twisted in vicious wrinkles.

 

“Don’t waste your arrows, men!” She commanded as the hail of red fletching suddenly stopped, the experts ceasing at her order and following it unlike the former captain would’ve. “Let the traitor die in her watery grave!” The elderly woman snapped. “You’re to find me the gypsy boy Esmerald. Let nothing stand in your way. If you have to burn the entire city to the ground, then so be it!”

 

Esmerald felt himself going pale at the mention of that order. He knew Frollo was ruthless. He knew Frollo was bad. He knew she’d placed a guard at every door and imprisoned every loyal gypsy she could get her men to find. He knew she’d burned down many buildings and didn’t care who got hurt in the process. But burning down the entire city?

 

The worst part was knowing she was probably more than capable of doing it. And doing it quickly.

But for once Frollo wasn’t his concern. There was a decent woman in that river that deserved his help and had now earned his trust. He rushed into the swirling currents and ignored the crystals of minute ice that clung to his purple pants, Djali watching from the sidelines with the disguise cloak ready. The burn of the cold water didn’t bother him with the urgency of his patient, and in moments he’d reached her. His tawny hands roped around her waist as he yanked her above the water and dragged her to the shore.

  
The sky glowed a brilliant red as the gypsy boy quickly realized Phoebe wouldn’t survive long out in the elements. His gaze turned towards the city, the plumes of grey smoke beginning to rise from the homes and apartments the guards had reached. The siege of Paris had begun. And while Esmerald hardly relished the thought of going back, he knew he didn’t have any choice. WIth Notre Dame in his sights, he set out with the unconscious woman over his shoulder to the nearest gypsy hideout he could reach on foot, his bandages leaving strange markings along the muddy riverbed.


	10. A Girl Like Her

Quasimoda looked out over the city from the south tower, the view she’d do long cherished and longed to be a part of completely altered in nearly every way. Where she’d once heard the gossip and shouts of Parisians from down below she now only heard the crackling of fire and the screams of those affected by it. It was especially depressing to think she was fortunate enough to be above and away from the horror while the innocent were suffering and losing everything, but she chose to simply turn her gaze to her miniature Paris for the moment, knowing it would forever be as accurate as it’s model had once been and  hopefully would be again one day.

 

The smoke and embers curled up into a blood red sky as a burst of flames lept from an area well across the city. Her eyes darted to the same spot on her model. It was a cobbler’s shop, she knew. With a disappointed sigh, she closed her eyes for a moment before going up to the towers to ring the evening bells, the time of night hardly noticeable given the radiance of the city around her. Besides, she figured hardly anyone was paying attention to the time given the worries they now had.

 

The cacophony of the many heavy copper and brass shells rocked her innards, the feeling of inevitable strength and power coursing through her veins as it always had. The ringing of the bells was dulled in her nearly deafened ears as she’d never needed protection from the sound nor wanted it. It was loud, but nonetheless beautiful. It was something that had never changed for the hunchback all her life. Even in her darkest moments, ringing the bells of Notre Dame gave her a sense of strength and contentment that for the moment chased away the painful reality of the world outside her thick, stone-walled prison. She had never cared to admit she would be deaf eventually, but thought that blocking away the beauty of her calling to be a fate worse than the former.

Despite the fact that Quasimoda would’ve gladly remained in her position forever, calloused hands gripping the coarse twine of rope and the beautifully distracting noises of the bells, there was a concern to her friend, Esmerald, that eventually called her back to the bottom of the tower. The gargoyles were standing at the rail, facing the blaze of the square head on. She heard the words of her companions even after the ringing had faded from her eardrums.

 

“It doesn’t look good…” Victoria sighed from her place next to Lorenzo.

 

“I know,” He admitted, his tone sorrowful. “But don’t you say anything to our _figlia._ The last thing she needs right now is to be any more worried.”

 

“It’s hopeless.” She slumped a bit as if she hadn’t heard a single word the elderly gargoyle had said.

 

“You’re telling me!” Harry groaned from her spot on the railing. “I’m losing to a bird!” She threw down a handful of grapes that a pigeon across from her happily gobbled up. “I’ve been betting that straw mill would be goin’ down any second, but _no._ ” She rolled her eyes. “This feathered rat bet on the cobbler and I’m stuck with nothin!”

 

Both of them looked confused for a moment before Victoria questioned the obvious. “Why are you betting grapes?”

 

“And pray tell,” Lorenzo hopped over to her and gave her a painfully scrutinizing gaze. “Why does that matter when _all of Paris is burning?!_ ”

 

She groaned. “Because I need _something_ to impress that hunk when he comes back, and I don’t know about you, but nothing doesn’t spell a date.”

 

“Lay off the boy!” Lorenzo snapped and conked the pudgy gargoyle on her head. “He’s already taken!” Quasimoda avoided the urge to roll her eyes, her back digging into one of the columns.

 

“I wasn’t talking about the kid, I was talkin’ about the goat!” She gave the older gargoyle a slight shove. Lorenzo’s eyes softened as he mumbled something in Italian.

 

“That poor gypsy boy, I’m beginning to fear… the worst.” Victoria squeaked.

 

“I know, but keep those fears to yourself, dear. The best thing we can do right now is to keep strong for Quasi. Understood?”

 

Both female gargoyles nodded in agreement. The hunched woman stepped out into the light. “You don’t have to keep quiet, guys. I can hear you.” She sighed.

 

Lorenzo whirled around. “Quasi, you know better than to eavesdrop.” He attempted to scold her but the tone became flat at the realization that it was hardly the time to be doing so.

 

“It’s a big bell tower, you old coot.” Harry nudged him. “She’s bound to hear everything eventually. Bells don’t make her deaf.”

 

The bell ringer ignored their argument and limped up to the thick stone rail, the view of Paris a blazing orange nightmare. Her vantage point allowed her a decent outlook on any given day, but the plumes of black smoke worked to obscure any sort of information she could’ve obtained from the cathedral. She’d already considered questioning the archdeacon for anything he could’ve supplied, but knew he had more trouble than anyone else right now what with the massive amount of people now seeking sanctuary in the church while their homes burned to the ground. There was no sign of Esmerald yet, but she asked her friends the same question anyhow.

 

And the only response she got was a loud wail from Victoria, who slumped into Lorenzo with shaking sobs. “This isn’t good.” She groaned, hands pressed into her face.

 

“What are you guys talking about?” Harry asked between the trio’s states of varying defeat. “If I know Esmerald he’s three steps ahead of Frollo and well out of harm's way!”

 

“How can you be so sure?!” Victoria nearly shouted. “He could be anywhere! He could be in the dungeons, in the stocks, on the rack; he could already be-” She cut herself off with a hiccup as the deformed young woman felt a stone drop in her stomach.

 

Her friends words brought her to realize that she had absolutely no knowledge of Esmerald and had no prospect for his survival other than his strength and his ability to outrun people. She had no form of information to the gypsy boy and hadn’t seen or heard anything of him be it first or second hand since he’d disappeared into the darkness less than two days ago. Frollo hadn’t even been up to visit her and for that she counted her blessings, however minute they have have been. As much as she respected the judge, she would always be afraid of her just as everyone else was. Just because she’d been shown mercy hardly meant she was exempt from her adopted mother's judgement. The bell towers had been painfully silent for the hours after Esmerald had left, the gargoyles remaining to themselves as the hunchback found herself simply looking out at the world as she had in those twenty years of near complete solitude. But unlike then her attention was held by one thing and one thing only: The gypsy boy and his survival.

 

She yearned to know the truth. But after a moment, it became rather obvious pessimism wasn’t going to get her anywhere. Quasimoda looked over to Harry, who’d shooed the pigeon away and gathered the remainder of her grapes in cloven hooves.

 

“Are you sure,” She started. “about him coming back?”

 

“‘Course!” She nodded popping one of the grapes into her mouth. “Things may look bad now, but once this all cools down, you’ll see. He’ll be back.”

 

She chuckled a bit at her friend’s optimism. “What makes you say that?”

 

“Because he likes you _caro._ ” Lorenzo patted her in the head, bits of dusty gravel flaking in her long ginger locks. “We always said you were the cute one.” He nodded confidently.

 

Harry looked hurt, her cheeks stuffed like a squirrels. “I thought I was the cute one!” She said through a mouthful of grape flesh.

 

“No!” Lorenzo snapped. “You’re the fat, stupid one with the big mouth!”

 

If anything, she looked confused by the serious insult, and the elder gargoyle waved her off. “Take it from us, Quasi. You’ve got the boys heart on a platter. All you gotta do is wait your turn.”

 

“Me?” She became red as her beefy hands patted her chest.

 

“Yes, you!” Harry sniggered. “You’re everything he could ever want in a girl! You’re original!”

 

Victoria seemed to have perked up at this. “Damsels in distress don’t seem to be his type.” She remarked. “And you’ve saved him from Frollo not even two nights ago!”

 

“And those other girls? They’re all the same from every point of view.” Lorenzo waved his hand in a fitting tone. “They want a man with muscle to whisk them off their feet.”

 

“But you’re going to be the only one using the muscle around here.” Victoria then demonstrated by knocking a bunch against the hunchbacks bicep, and a finger cracked and chipped off as if to show she was tougher than stone.

 

“You’re a surprise from every angle!” Harry hopped down from the rail, the grape stalk getting tossed down to the fire below to be incinerated. “He’s gotta love a girl like you!”

 

“Come on guys, I’m not that special.” She blushed as her gaze fell to the wooden slats of floor.

 

“You gotta be kiddin’ me!” Harry spun to her and grabbed hold of the hunchbacks arm, dragging her along. “Come on, I wanna show you something.”

 

Although she would’ve been able to escape from the cloven hooves, Quasimoda didn’t feel like she needed to. She willingly followed Harry to a spot in her bell tower that she had feared for a very long time.

 

Pegged to a column in a rather innocuous spot besides the staircase was a polished surface of the finest glass. The silver light of the moon often shone upon its reflective surface on any normal night, but tonight the only light came from the distant glow of crackling embers, the outside world providing a source from which Quasimoda had learned to loath and fear. The mirror.

 

In Frollo’s eyes it was a necessity to keep one’s soul within viewable reach, for the pious judge saw it as more than just a reflective surface. There was a value to the human soul, as corrupted as it may have been, that could never be replaced. In the mirror, she’d taught her daughter that the soul of the viewer was reflected back at them, and every time she looked, she could see the ugliness of her features that reflected the twisted nature of her own soul. Quasimoda had even been forced as far as to accept the hideousness as a flaw that she was cursed with, and to ensure she never forgot it, the judge had her daughter repeat the phrase ‘I am ugly’ every time she stumbled past the looking glass. She’d even gone as far as covering up the mirror his a section of silk every time her mistress left. The physical deformities quickly became her worst traits, but as deep as the emotional scars were, she’d learned long ago to accept she wasn’t beautiful.

 

But to her and Frollo especially, being ugly, or different for that matter, was the worst possible thing she could be. Pointing it out only made her feel worse.

 

And yet here they were, the reflection of her deformed face staring back at her, her hazel eyes glowing in the distant light of the fires outside. She looked on at every nuance, every malformation, everything that they deemed unfit for the light of day. Her left eye was almost hidden beneath a large wart, her adam’s apple jogged in her throat with each gulp. Her lips her nonexistent, thin lines of pink flesh shielding a snaggletooth. Her hair was thick and frizzy, the tarnished ginger red dulled in the light of the world outside her tower. Everything about her said unkept. Everything about her said hideous.

 

“Kid,” Harry began with a slight sigh. “I know it and you know it. Ya don’t look your best.” A moment of silence passed at the words dug into her pale skin. “But what I see in that mirror is a girl with a heart of gold. You may not see it, they might not see it.” She shook her head. “But we all see it. We see the girl behind the mask. We see past what you look like, because it’s what you are.” She patted her shoulder as well as she could with the height difference. “That boy sees it in you. He’s seen it all along. If he hadn’t cared he wouldn’t have risked his skin standin’ up to Frollo. No matter what happens in life, you chip a bit, you get wear and tear,” She dusted a bit of gravel from her hair as if to illustrate her point. “But beauty isn’t skin deep. Beauty is within. Victoria and Lorenzo see that in you; _I_ see it in you. Esmerald sees it in you. And if you can see it, something tells me you’re gonna be just fine.”                     

 

She gulped. “You really think so?”

 

“Mon Dio above!” Harry laughed. “Of course, kid! For all the girls that chase him, you’ve got a better chance than anyone else.”

 

Quasimoda looked hard at her reflection, her eyes softening from the scrutinizing glare she’d often given herself whenever passing. She focused on herself, trying to beneath what was outside. She tried to look past what she was, what she looked like. Confidence bloomed in her for a moment before something caught her eye, Harry suddenly going cold and hard as the stone she was carved from. It was a flash of gold in the corner of the mirror, a distant smudge doing little to hinder the reveal. She whirled around to face the intruder.

 

Leon stood behind her, his face sheltered by the shadow of an elevated beam. His brown eyes were covered with a length of mauve fabric. His tawny skin was a lucid pale shade even in the glowing light of the fires outside. His black hair was short and messily cut, many strands of sleek ink lines dripping down his dampened forehead. His goatee on the other hand was neatly trimmed, streaks of silver hairs surfacing in minor clusters like freshly cooled pewter. His attire was plain as it was most days, a limpid white shirt hidden beneath a dirtied, once crisp apron. Large boots covered his feet, corse and hastily stitched leather suggesting they’d been through many repairs.

 

“Bonsoir, Quasimoda.” His voice was throaty, as if he’d attempted to say it as quietly as possible. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He began to turn away.

 

“No!” She covered as she stumbled towards him. “You didn’t frighten me. I just... didn’t expect you here so late.”

 

He laughed a bit, a sense of elation passing like a spark between the two for a moment. Quasimoda felt a sense of accomplishment from this. He almost never laughed at all, much less around her.

 

“I can’t even tell what time it would be anyway,” The smallest of smiles began to twitch at his lips. “I would’ve guessed it was daytime, everything’s so bright.”

 

It was a joke she knew she or him shouldn’t have taken lightly, however they both seemed to be in need of some humor, even if it could’ve come from someone else’s expense. Knowing the drill by now, Quasimoda looked immediately to her right and fetched a piece of carefully whittled wood that was about as tall as her, and carefully pressed it to Leon’s arm. He gripped it, and smiled again, a bit wider, before he began walking towards the statues that stood on the opposite end of the room, the cane tapping occasionally to the floor as he was familiar with the room.

 

She’d asked him long ago why he walked with his blindfold on when he was already blind, but the matter was often returned unanswered or with a grunt. The bell ringer learned his affliction was a sore subject rather quickly, and refrained from bringing it up with him.

 

Like her, Leon had a job to do. Within the bell tower on his infrequent visits, the clattering of a cane could often be heard echoing in the rafters and the bells. He would enter the church, be greeting by the archdeacon, and go up to the bell towers for many hours in the early and late evening. Quasimoda would do her part, and locate his cane despite the fact that he rarely needed it. He would then make his way over to the shelves, blocks of thick, grey stone waiting and ready to be shaped into anything the archdeacon or the church desired. He would take his tools from the chest, and remove his blindfold before going to work, carving the bricks into acclaimed works of art one never would’ve expected to be possible given the sculptors condition of vision. To his credit, Leon was a quiet soul, and was able to supposedly identify shadows and depth. Not well enough to fully see, of course; but well enough to provide him with a job at the church.

 

His relationship with Quasimoda was, at times, strained. Both of them were loners at heart but the hunched young woman often attempted small talk that for a very long time was only answered, customarily, by a grunt, or silence. Most of the time this convinced her that he wasn’t interested in talking, but occasionally it didn’t. And when she pressed further, this goaded the blind man into either snapping or getting up and leaving altogether, the result being pain and hurt on both sides. These arguments were normally forgotten or overlooked until the next visit, and by then the cycle would begin again. He was a lonely voice in the tower whenever she longed for actual companionship, and despite their ups and downs, there was a mutual respect that the both shared for one another that however tumultuous, was something she wouldn’t have given up for anything in the world.

 

He’d taken a half complete work, a replacement hand for one of the saints outside, and began to chisel away more rock, his eyes trained on his work and nothing else as the hunchback limped over towards him. He didn’t look up at her. She sat down on her stool and cleared her throat.

 

“Something wrong?” He asked with a slight hint of annoyance.

 

“No,” She shrunk away as her voice became a squeak.

 

He sighed heavily. “I’m guessing you’re not going to leave me alone until I give you my attention?”

 

“Right.” She nodded, a little stronger.

 

“Alright.” He answered, and set his carving tools down and leaned both dusty hands on his knees. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing,” She answered slightly shy, her fingers twirling a lock of hair.

 

“Don’t give me that.” He shook his head. “I may be blind but I’m not deaf. What’s wrong?”

 

She blinked for a moment, her lips pursed in angst. “I’m just a little… conflicted.” He grunted. “About someone.”

 

“Someone,” He echoed.

 

She folded her large hands. “I don’t know. He just gets me excited.”

 

Then Leon paused, and took a breath, his gaze finally settling a full foot above the hunchback, his dark eyes distant and lost as they always had been. He let it out in a long, drawn out sigh. “I don’t know what to tell you, Quasimoda. I’ve never had something like that happen.”

 

“Never?” She pressed in slight shock. He shook his head.

 

“Nope. Being blind doesn’t help me anymore in relationships than it does going up stairs. It’s one of those things that never gets any easier.” He sighed again.

 

She looked at the floor, his makeshift cane resting at an angle between the gap in his legs. It represented the emptiness his disability brought him, the reminder that he was an outcast just like she was. Something within her brought to ask the question she hadn’t asked him in years, and she almost felt a sense of regret for doing so.

 

“How did it happen?”

 

A stretch of silence passed over the room as the sculptor closed his eyes, the ‘it’ rather obvious. His lips pressed into a thin line as his gaze became conflicted. Something within him seemed different. Almost familiar. For a moment, it looked as if he was about to tell her the story of how his sight had been taken from him; to tell her the reason why his eyes were limpid and empty with every moment of passing time.

 

Something had to ruin the moment, and that certain thing was the opening of the door to the bell tower. Quasimoda whirled around to look at the intruder who had interrupted her conversation with Leon. A stretched shadow cast by moonlight filled the doorway from down below, the definite figure of a young mans. His arms hung loosely around the stone decor of the outside, and the distant glow of fires seemed to extinguish in his presence.

 

“Quasimoda?” His tone was tentative and soft, but it carried through the tower nonetheless. She felt herself jumping up from her stool and Leon shot to his feet, his cane clattering to the floor.

 

“Esmerald?” She questioned with a hint of glee growing in her voice. She peered down the channel of steps to the doorway where the handsome gypsy stood, his dulled eyes darting to the loft area and her. He stepped inside.

 

“Esmerald!” She exclaimed, a massive grin overcoming her as she bounded down the steps before limping to her friend and embracing him. “I knew you’d come back! I just knew you would!” She chuckled as the teenager returned the embrace. Her eyes fell to the ground for a moment and her eyes grew wide in horror. “You’re hurt!” She gasped, bringing her large hands to her mouth.

 

Esmerald shook his head. “These are nothing compared to what I’ve had. Trust me, Quasimoda. Gypsies are very resourceful. A few scrapes on your feet are easily healed.” He indicated to the bloody lengths of once lilac cotton that had been bled to white and then red.

 

“But you’re alright now?” She asked breathlessly.

 

“Yes.” He nodded before he face fell. He sighed with the tiniest bit of guilt behind his eyes. “My friend, you’ve done so much for me. You’ve saved me from Frollo, you’ve kept her in the dark. I didn’t want to, but I’m afraid I must ask for your help one more time.”

 

“Yes.” She answered instantly. “Anything.”

 

He led her towards the door, and beckoned into the world. A large man appeared in the doorway, his large frame nearly overshadowing the passenger he held in his hands. She couldn’t hold back her awe as a pang of recognition followed the reveal of the blonde captain of the guards. Her gilded armor was no more, and without it she was obviously injured. Numerous cuts and wounds, some scabbed, some bleeding; dotted her upper torso as well as a nasty gash by her shoulder and a matching one on her right knee. Her straw blonde locks were frizzed and the tips were stained copper. They were also noticeably shorter than before.

 

“Her name is Phoebe. She’s horribly wounded and a fugitive like me.” He indicated to the young woman who was cradled in the large gypsies arms.

 

“Fugitive? But she’s the captain-”

 

“Of the guard, I know. She was, but not anymore. She defied Frollo and was hit multiple times by the marksmen. I saved her from drowning and I can heal her, but I need a place where she can stay for now. With all of Paris burning, I didn’t have much of the choice.” He looked back outside and sighed. “Please, Quasimoda, can you hide her?”

 

Although she had no desire to hide Phoebe, the hunchback couldn’t help but feel terrible about the way she had acted towards the captain. It was inevitable that she’d eventually pay the price for defying the judge, Quasimoda knew that much from previous captains. But she hardly ever expected she’d see her again afterwards for the hanging or flogging or whatever punishment her adopted mother would have seen fit. It was a whole other matter to be housing a criminal in her personal quarters. If she did this, there was no question. She would be dead if Frollo found out.

 

But then again, she’d promised. Esmerald was the first person to show actual kindness towards her. She owed him much for saving her skin. With a heavy heart, she nodded.

 

“This way.” She beckoned and began to walk up the stairs.

 

She felt limp inside, a feeling of overwhelming terror washing through her even though Esmerald had made it clear they had nothing to fear from the injured captain. She stumbled up the steps as best she could, her face tingling with silent anxiety. Something was bad about this. She just couldn’t figure out what that was yet. With each step the glow of candlelight grew brighter, and the creaks in the steps grew softer.

 

But when she reached the loft, there was a flush of surprise. Leon was nowhere to be seen, the only indication of his former presence the sculpting tools which sat exactly where he’d left them. The candle near the forlorn objects was out, a trail of wispy smoke curling to the rafters above. She blinked as her jaw worked itself slightly, unsure what happened.

 

 _He must’ve ran off._ Quasimoda frowned for only a second before they reached the only place Phoebe could rest: her pallet.

 

She extended an arm towards her own bed without a release of breath, Leon’s disappearance leaving her mind as the large gypsy set the injured woman down on the soft cotton spread, a rolled up section of wool sufficing as a pillow. She was laid down as carefully as possible, a grunt of pain coming from her lips upon contact with the barely padded wooden slats.

 

Her eyelids twitched in the warmth of the candlelight. “Esmerald,” She managed to wince before he shushed her.

 

The gypsy boy got to his hands and knees, shedding his worn blue cloak and tucking it beside them, Djali sitting patiently next to his master. The larger gypsy moved towards the balcony, keeping watch over the city of light for any signs of trouble. Quasimoda on the other hand remained by a column of wood, watching to gypsy and the former soldier with tentative eyes. Her beefy hands wrapped to the post like ivy, unwilling to leave the scene. With a soft silence settling in the air, Esmerald went to work on the injured hero.

 

He began by removing a section of thread from his poet's shirt, looping through the eye of a needle. Setting it aside for the moment, he removed an object from his scarf. The glint of a green bottle caught the hunchbacks eye as she heard every word.

 

“Hold still.” Esmerald chided, placing pressure on her shoulders as the captain attempted to shift from her position.

 

Her eyes became playful for a moment upon seeing the bottle. “Is now really the time for a drink?” She chuckled weakly.

 

Esmerald remained serious, his frown not even wavering as he uncorked the wine. “I seem to recall a certain captain giving me a drink not even twelve hours ago.” His tawny hands worked to moved the bloodied fabric of her pants away from the wound.

 

“And how was it?” She smiled a bit.

 

“Well, I’m not dead yet.” The tiniest hint of a chuckle left his throat before his eyes hardened in concentration. “Don’t move,” He scolded. “This might sting a little.”

 

The maroon liquid splashed on her knee, forcing a pained yell to leave her dry throat. Her hands clenched into fists and there was a trace of tears in her eyes. “That feels like,” She paused. “A 1470 burgundy. In hindsight, not a good year.”

 

“Only the finest for Frollo’s goons.” Esmerald sighed and began to sop up the alcohol with a rag from his pocket. “But a wise woman once told me it could heal.”

 

She grinned a bit. “You think I’m wise?” Her voice was weak.

 

“No.” Esmerald answered.

 

“Figures.” Her eyes rolled weakly. “I was stupid enough to make Frollo mad.”

 

A pause of silence passed as the teenager tightened a knot and with decent precision, began to suture the knee wound shut. Magenta colored thread, stained by wine, was slowly but surely stitched through the bloody flesh of her kneecap. She winced with each poke and tug of the needle, nails clawing into pink palms. The snap of the thread echoed on the near silent room, the suture complete. Esmerald then repeated the process to a wound on her shoulder.

 

“You were stupid.” The gypsy boy agreed. “But you were also a hero. I think idiotic bravery works well with you, captain.”

 

“Ex captain, remember?” She grunted in pain as he began to stitch the second, smaller wound closed.

 

“That family still owes you their lives. You’re either the bravest ex soldier I’ve met, or the craziest.” He admitted. “And you stood up to Frollo. That, I have to give you credit for.”

 

“You made it look so easy.” She rolled her eyes. “You managed to do it and didn’t get… how many arrows?”

 

The last suture was completed, and Esmerald broke the thread with his teeth. The movement made her wince. “Seventeen.” He supplied. “Only one of them went deep enough to cause real damage. The rest you got, I’m afraid, from me. I guess I could’ve been more gentle when rescuing you.”

 

“I’ll take note of it.” She sighed solemnly. “For some reason, whenever we meet, I always end up bleeding.”

 

His tawny fingers brushed a lock of bloodstained, copper tinted hair, and Phoebe looked at it with a small smirk. “You cut my hair. I swear I said I didn’t need one.” She chuckled.

 

“I had to.” He answered, the fingers going deeper. “They were getting in the way of everything. You’re lucky this is all that I needed to do.” He began to brush away a fleck of dried blood from her shirt. “The leg injury could’ve left you with a cane, and that one arrow almost pierced your heart.”

 

Suddenly, her hands moved from her sides. Phoebe opened her eyes a little wider, the dulled brown shining in the candlelight. Those hands brushed against Esmerald’s dark skinned hand, caressing the calloused flesh and bringing it to her heart. His labret caught the light as his mouth opened a bit.

 

The injured woman’s next words were soft and tired, a hint of a smirk on her lips. “I’m not so sure it didn’t.”

 

Quasimoda’s eyes suddenly widened at those words, her hands clutching the column as a wave of lightheadedness passed over her. Her legs stumbled back to support her torso as she pressed into the wood. Her eyes felt damp as she watch Esmerald lean into her, his scarred fingers bunching the blonde tresses as Phoebe sat up. Their eyes closed slowly and in only another second, their lips touched in a kiss. His raven hair caught the light of the candle, a glowing silhouette forming around the pair as their silent kiss continued, his lips molding into hers.

 

She felt a wicked tug on her chest, her breath quickening as a hand drifted to it. A tear left her eye before she forced herself to close them, and turn away. She couldn’t bear to witness any more of it. Her heart ached as she felt the cold, dry wooden of the post press into her forehead, a feeling of weakness rolling down through every part of her body from her broken fantasies. Something prodded her from within as more tears flowed down her flushed cheeks. Esmerald didn’t love her. It was so obvious now and she wanted to strangle herself for not seeing it sooner. Why had she let herself be so stupid? Why did she let herself be goaded into ever believing someone could love her at all, much less for the way she was? Why was this time different?

 

Because he’d shown her kindness. She knew that now. Because he was the first person with sight that hadn’t grimaced from her appearance. Because he’d saved her from the torture of the jeering Parisians. Because he’d made her feel like she was worth something when all her life she’d been taught to believe she was only a burden and a monster. Because for once she felt normal.

 

But she’d also been naive. He’d never shown anything telling to her. He’d never given her a compliment outside of friendly nature. It was painful to think there was a difference between attraction and kindness, that the two things were totally different. But no face as hideous as her face was ever meant for heaven’s light. She’d been a fool to think any different. Once again, Frollo was right, and it tore her up inside.

 

The teenager broke the kiss first, Phoebe’s eyes shutting from exhaustion. Soft breathing came from the captain as Esmerald laid her down once more, his hand caressing her cheek in affection that he hadn’t realized was there until now.

 

The silence of the moment was shattered by the large gypsy man. He called for Esmerald, his hand beckoning to the rail as Djali scampered up next to the man, bleating with urgency. The gypsy boy and Quasimoda ran to the rail, peering down to the square from the south tower and out to the smoldering city of Paris.

 

In the darkness of the cobblestone square, an elaborate carriage was parked before the cathedral. A black robed figure stepped out from the door, guards flanking either side as she began to walk in their direction. Quasimoda shook herself out of grief.

 

“Mistress Frollo’s coming. You need to get out of here!” She began to stumble away from the rail and towards the steps. “Quick, follow me,”

 

The three adults dashed down the steps with Djali prancing behind, their footfalls clambering down the steps with urgency to avoid being caught in a dead end with a woman whose idea of justice involved fire and lots of it. “Out the north tower steps; Frollo doesn’t know about them. They’re the ones that are inlaid behind the statue of St. Maurice!”

 

The large gypsy man spent no time doddling and heeded the warning, Djali following him as Esmerald suddenly stopped, turning to the bell ringer. His hands grabbed hold of hers, his back bending to reach her height. His eyes flashed with a glow of concern. “You’re not coming?” His voice was hushed.

 

“No,” She shook her head. “If I’m not here she’ll only put two and two together. I’ll be fine.”

 

“If you must,” His eyes darted to the floor and back to Quasimoda. “be careful my friend. Please, promise me you won’t let anything happen to Phoebe.”

 

A beat of anxious silence passed through her, but she had no choice. “I promise.” She nodded.

 

“Thank you, my friend.” He whispered, pulling away and leaving the room, the door pushing shut behind him.

 

The gypsy’s feet stung on contact with the cold stone floor but it didn’t matter to him. Esmerald knew his biggest concern was leaving the cathedral before he was seen by anyone else. His companions were nowhere to be seen, although their distant echoes could barely be heard above the crackling of far off fires and the sounds of his own footfalls. He saw the statue of St Maurice, its chipped stone robes blocking his view of the staircase the bell ringer had pointed them towards.

 

But suddenly, Esmerald felt himself slowing down, his bandaged feet moving smaller and smaller strides as a presence was behind him. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck standing up, a sense of paralyzation working through his now comatose legs. His spine vibrated with tingling as a tapping sound came from behind. He whirled around to face the noise.

 

The source of the sound was revealed to him as his shining eyes took in the figure before him. The man was a clear distance away, only halfway across the bridge between the towers. The light of the moon cast a darkened glow on his tawny face and appendages, a hand wrapped around a wooden cane, tapping it lightly against the stones of of the floor. Esmerald squinted at him, and realized he was blindfolded; a pink length of fabric wrapped around his eyes. He was looking in his direction, his chin level with Esmeralds as he tapped his cane to the ground again. It was light, almost mute, but for some reason very unsettling.

  
Esmerald gulped, and blinked at the man. As suddenly as he’d appeared, he was gone. With no explanation and the sounds of his friends footsteps growing weaker and weaker, he picked up his pace, following them down the stairs and back to his sanctuary, his safe haven. To the Court of Miracles.


	11. Someday We May Yet Live

With the gypsy boy's departure, Quasimoda felt the temporary grief leave her for a moment as urgency once again asserted itself as the top priority. Frollo would be in her tower any moment, and she still had a fugitive to stash wherever she could fit her. Her feet pounded against the steps to her loft where the half conscious woman in her bed moaned weakly, the medical work of Esmerald doing her very much good considering the number of wounds she'd sustained. Despite this and the reassurance the gypsy boy had given the patient that she'd overheard, Quasimoda doubted dragging her across a dusty floor and removing her from the most comfortable place she could offer would do the injured fugitive any form of good. Also, despite knowing how stupid her little fantasy had been and knowing Phoebe had won him fair and square, there was a part of her that loathed the beautiful blonde out of jealousy. The simple fact was that the captain was everything she wasn't.

The hunched young woman had been schooled to believe fruitless desires were a sin, but in this case the ginger doubted there was anything she could've done to stop it. The word _lust_ had never been spoken or even thought of, and it in all honesty sickened her. There seemed to be something wicked about it that she couldn't quite place and felt different than the teachings of Frollo. She was certain those out there felt it, and those who lived in sin probably indulged in it. But there were a lot of things she would never have guessed to be true about the world, and truth be told, Quasimoda knew ignorance was bliss.

But not in her case. There were so many odds and ends she didn't know if she preferred knowing and accepting a gypsy, or living happily in dark isolation. Phoebe's soft moans aroused her from deep thought, and Quasimoda realized with terror that she'd wasted valuable time and was simply standing in the middle of the room with an unconscious former captain of the guard. What Frollo would do if she appeared at this moment in time would not be a pretty image.

With no other ideas coming to her, the hunchback threw her head in every direction to any object Phoebe could hide- no, be squeezed under. The only place even capable of holding a grown and toned woman beneath it was her miniature table, with an old tablecloth falling and blocking any shadows that penetrated from the light of the moon and the lone candle that burned in the center of the square like a stake. It wasn't exactly ideal, but it was the best solution Quasimoda could think of short of throwing her from the sixty foot height of the tower. She'd promised Esmerald that she wouldn't let anything happen to her. Begrudgingly, yes; but a promise was a promise.

She continued to moan through clenched teeth, obviously stirring from the weakness of her immune system-endorsed sleep. Quasimoda hissed at her to be silent and with all her strength shoved the blonde under the table, giving her a kick to the uninjured section of gut to squeeze her body beneath where she wouldn't be seen.

She heard delicate and measured feet walking up the steps and barely managed to get her hands towards her model of Paris before it became clear that her mistress was in the room, a cold presence tingling the base of her hunched spine. She knocked over the shepherd clumsily before molding her face into the most normal presence possible. Quasimoda had never lied to anyone before, much less her adoptive mother.

"Good evening, dear daughter." Her silky voice greeted. Quasimoda pretended to start, knocking over a little hovel with a windmill next to it; a piece of her world that didn't really belong anywhere.

"Mistress!" She gasped slightly. "I-I-I didn't think that you'd be coming." She turned to face Frollo with a painfully false grin.

Frollo smiled. "Why I'm never too busy to share a meal with you, Quasimoda. I've been neglecting you these past few hours and for that I apologize."

This show of concern was somewhat confusing. The judge was never particularly nurturing to her although Quasimoda always knew subconsciously she did care. Nonetheless she shook her head. "I'm not upset. I understand you're awfully busy." She nearly choked on that last line knowing the pain and suffering that was down there.

Frollo brought a basket from between the folds of her robes and set it on the table. "It is hard work, but alas it is my duty to ensure that justice is dispensed throughout this fair city."

Alarms went off in her head. This was the exact speech she'd heard from her mistress every time there was an execution or some other brutal punishment towards Parisians going on. Something was amiss about her mother tonight. What, Quasimoda didn't exactly know, but she did know that she would find out.

"W-what sort of justice, mistress?" She inquired softly.

"Oh never you mind, Quasimoda. It's not a matter you'd be interested in." The elderly judge waved off her adopted daughter's question.

The hunchback didn't give in to it this time despite knowing very well what Frollo was busy with. "N-no really, w-what is it? I'm curious." She folded her misshapen hands dutifully.

Frollo seemed suspicious by this curiosity. Knowing where it had gotten Quasimoda last time, there was something to be said about such a word and the damage it was capable of. However, this suspicion was buried and she indulged in her desires to know. "If you must know, I'm in the process of finding that one gypsy boy who so rudely insulted me a few days ago, should you happen to recall. He is extremely violent and a threat to anyone, and I do not tolerate gypsies." She sighed. "Anyhow, let us forget the matter and dine. You're probably famished; and to celebrate the progress of my efforts, I brought us a little treat."

For a brief moment Quasimoda was ensnared by the prospect of a treat. Sweet things weren't a common thing given where she lived. Frollo untucked the cloth cover to the basket to reveal a bunch of grapes. Green ones. The excitement quickly died with the realization that there was a convicted criminal at her feet. She counted her blessings Frollo hadn't either looked down or sat where her feet disappeared underneath the miniature Paris.

The judge then curtly removed her hat, lowering it gracefully to her knees as Quasimoda was left to knot her beefy fingers. This moment of silence only lasted for a moment before Frollo cleared her throat expectantly, her eyes snapping over to the shelves positioned on the wall. The hunchback stared blankly for a moment before recalling her routine.

She bolted up from her stool and stumbled over to the shelves as she always had, perturbed that something she did or didn't do would hint to her mistress of her lack of obedience. Her hands were reaching up as quickly as she could, glancing back at her parent for a brief moment until a large hand knocked the intricately sculpted wine goblet that belonged to her mistress to the floor, the glass object shattering loudly. It caused her to wince, but she managed to gather the remainder of their dishware and delivered it to the table with all the grace of a dying goose.

Frollo politely nudged her own plate away from where it had nearly implanted itself in her stomach, judging the hunchback with darkened grey eyes that made Quasimoda feel all the more anxious with every movement she made. The judge removed the stalk of green grapes from the wicker basket and placed them on her daughter's trencher, and removed a stalk for herself.

"Is there something troubling you, dear?" She twisted one from its vine. The hunchback shivered like a rabbit, trying with failed desperation to remove the telltale look of horror from her face. Her eyes fell to the glossy green globes set before her, lips parted slightly.

"N-no," She stuttered quietly. "Nothing's troubling me, mistress."

Frollo popped the grape into her withered mouth, chewing quietly. "But there is." She argued with a sickly sweet smile. "I know there is." She felt her eyelid twitch and suddenly it felt impossible to breath. Was lying really this difficult?

As if to taunt her and put her to the test, a green grape detached itself from the vine and bounced onto the ground, rolling under the shade of the tabletop. Quasimoda looked to her mistress for a split second before bending down to recover the fallen morsel. She could feel the warm breath of the semiconscious blonde on her fingertips, she was so close. The judge gazed scrutinizingly at the outstretched hand for a moment, the uneasiness of her adopted daughter subject to such emotions.

"I think that you might be hiding something from me, Quasimoda." She began with a slight accusatory tone. The hunchback righted herself, her eyes focusing on the grape to avoid looking Frollo in the eyes once more. If she did there was absolutely no guarantee she would stay faithful to Esmerald and not blow the entire scheme out of the water. Denial came to mind.

"Oh no, mistress, I," She winced for a moment. "There's nothing to hide here. It's my sanctuary."

Frollo looked unamused. "You're not eating, dear." She frowned with contorted wrinkles tightening in her cheeks.

Quasimoda shook her head. "I-I'm not very hungry," She paused before realizing she was messing up even worse. "Mistress." She tacked on at the last moment.

Frollo's frown worsened. "What have I taught you, daughter?" She snipped. Quasimoda felt extremely sick.

"Be grateful." She gulped.

"Then eat." The judge growled. "Be grateful you have food and someone so kind as to deliver it. There are plenty of poor Christians who are without such a thing and it would be a sin to let it go to waste."

With that, she began to eat the grapes as quickly as she possibly could, if only to assert her rouse and to get her mother out of the bell tower so she could decide what the heck she would be doing with her new roommate for the time being. There was no telling when or if Esmerald would be there to take her someplace safe, like the Court of Miracles where she could be safe.

Had push come to shove Quasimoda would've gladly left the bell tower if only as a method of last resort. Her refusal the first time he'd proposed to run away had merit; there was a sense of attachment to her home in the cathedral. But knowing all she was risking, leaving didn't sound like such a bad thing if the judge ever did find out about her involvement. She didn't want to. She really didn't want to. It pained her to consider it, but as much as she loved Notre Dame, Quasimoda realized one day she might not have any choice.

But saving her own skin was a second priority. As much as it also pained her to consider and admit, Phoebe was what mattered to Esmerald and now to her.

She mumbled thanks through a full mouth of grape flesh, completely disregarding her manners. Frollo watched in silent disgust and it troubled her more than anything else had that night. And it had been the longest night of her life.

She heard a broken groan from her feet and the hunchback expressed her enjoyment from the grapes although in reality they were quite bitter in an attempt to cover up the captain's presence. The blonde then groaned a bit louder and was silenced by a kick to the jaw as the hunchback began coughing as loudly as possible.

Quasimoda patted her chest weakly. "Seeds," She mumbled gesturing weakly to the half emptied vine on her trencher. Frollo scowled silently with a burning disapproval to her daughters boorish manners.

The elderly judge then scanned the darkened bell towers, her vision scoping every section of shadow as if searching for something that troubled her. "What's…" She paused. "Different, in here, tonight?"

"Different?" The hunched young woman squeaked, shrinking slightly on her stool.

"Yes, different." The judge snipped, standing to her full, imposing height. "Something feels different about this room. It's almost as if there's another presence here that I just cannot shake."

Quasimoda shook her head, ginger locks quivering. "N-no, mistress. Nobody else has been up here, I swear." She almost begged.

"Nobody else?" The judge questioned slyly, a raised eyebrow reserved for her daughter as if to make her feel even more guilt.

"I-I-I've just b-been carving; whittling!" She stammered, her eyes trailing to the floor with the knowledge that she was doing a horrible job being dishonest. Calloused skin cracked like aging walls of a dam, the secrets within welling up. Frollo's accusatory look softened, and for a brief and shining moment it seemed the judge had taken the bait.

That hope left the hunchback on wings as her eyes fell to the miniature Paris that played backdrop to their feast. Her grey eyes scanned the pebbles in the cobblestone square and every soul within the model city as if to survey everything was being correctly executed though she had ultimate control over the carved citizens as much as Quasimoda did. Something within the deformed woman told her that Frollo would've happily preferred a Paris where everyone was as obedient and willing as her wooden effigies. Something also told her there was no difference now in Frollo's eyes. The real Paris was also just as helpless. And flammable.

Her cold eyes stopped dead at the figure of Esmerald. Quasimoda felt her organs being squeezed in a slowly tightening vise that would destroy her. Her ring-adorned fingers reached down to the little wooden gypsy, brushing the gold leaf and raven of his bushy hair.

"Isn't this one new?" She questioned to Quasimoda as she could do anything but look away from her most prized creation as it was hoisted to the vantage point of the judge. Her eyes scanned it. "It's awfully good, dear daughter. I see your talents are to a good cause."

The hunchback blinked in confusion. "Y-you think so?" She asked breathlessly.

"I do." She nodded. "I also think it looks very much like the gypsy boy that I've been searching for." A boulder dropped in her stomach. "Tell me, how do you think he escaped?"

Quasimoda nearly toppled off of her chair and blacked out. It would've been a welcome excuse, to drop unconscious like Phoebe had and be out of this nightmare scenario. Instead she gripped the edge of the table for dear life and mumbled: "I don't know."

Frollo strolled around the model table towards her. "You're saying you didn't see him? How ever did you get the dimensions so correct?"

A lump welled in her throat. "I did see him." She confirmed. "B-but only from the steps, mistress."

A deathly still and long silence passed through the bell tower, the contemplation on Frollo's face unmistakeable. She knew something was amiss and she was more than correct in those regards. Quasimoda knew she couldn't keep herself dishonest for much longer, but admitting the truth now would surely be a death sentence. There was no forgiving the crimes and sins she'd committed already. The 'F' of forgiveness no longer applied if she was honest now. The 'F' now stood for funeral.

The judge's glare darkened for a split second further. She put two and two together. "Well," She began. "I know it's troubling you because _you helped him escape!_ " She shouted slamming the figure of Esmerald down with such force the entirety of the model Paris suffered a massive earthquake, details chipping and falling to the pebbles with the force of the judge's gavel-like hand. The flaring anger was so hot and terrifying a surprised Quasimoda yelped like a dog and tumbled back off her stool, her back grinding into the rough wooden floor. She could only stare in absolute awe and horror as Frollo seemed to grow many feet taller and persecute her to the fullest extent possible.

"And now all of Paris is _burning_ because of you and your spineless choices!" A needle-like index finger jabbed across the table to the shrunken, misshapen form of the bell ringer as if to pin her beneath both the coldest and fieriest glare she'd ever seen, let alone been subjected to.

She was breathing raggedly, her heart pounding like a battering ram and her ears ringing like the toll of the bells. "He was kind to me, mistress," She defended weakly.

"You _idiot!_ " Frollo screeched, throwing the figure of Esmerald across the table and bringing her fist down onto on of the many apartments in her little Paris. She then proceeded to drag her arm mercilessly along the table, destroying every building, landmark and object Quasimoda had spent practically her entire life creating. Her heart shattered into tinier fragments with each piece lost to her adopted mother's fit of maniacal rage.

"That wasn't _kindness,_ it was _cunning!_ " She knocked the candle into the cobblestones, the orange flame tilting upwards before storming about the table to Quasimoda's limp form, her feet destroying the remains of buildings carefully crafted. "He's a _gypsy!_ You know _gypsies_ are not capable of _real_ love!" Her bony fingers wrapped around the neck of her green tunic, yanking her towards the plethora of wrinkles engraved in her paper white face.

" _Think_ , girl!" The judge shook her violently as if it would shake sense into her. "Think of your _mother!_ "

The hunchbacks lips parted in awe as her jaw unhinged. Mild streams of tears carved down her face from widened and glassy hazel eyes. She was staring into the black pupils of emptiness, features drawn tighter than humanly possible. Pure rage emanated from her adopted mother. Not capable of love. Not kindness, but cunning. Think of her mother. Was there a difference?

But then, Frollo's jaw relaxed, her lips pressing into a thin line as her eyes regained the grey color. It was still icy, but a far cry better than it had been only seconds prior. She looked disgusted for a brief moment, her brow deepening into a sympathetic scowl; if there was such a thing. She cleared her throat, her grip on her daughter's green tunic faltering and releasing her to fall back to the wooden floor.

"But it can be forgiven. After all," She stood back up. "What chance could a poor, misshapen child like you have against the heathen ways of a gypsy?" Her needle-like fingers brushed Quasimoda's ginger locks protectively. "Well," The gleam of a baselard was removed from her robe pocket, the polished steel winking in the light of the tipped candle. "Never you mind, Quasimoda."

The sharpened end of the long, metal weapon quickly impaled the wooden figure of the dancing gypsy boy in his little chest before hoisting him up into the air. "That little incubus will be out of our lives soon enough. Whatever evil spell he holds over you can and will be broken by the fires of hell."

With that, she held the figure of Esmerald over the flame of the fallen candle, the many oil paints catching quickly and the wood roasting over the hungry wick. It was an incredibly morbid statement and gesture. Quasimoda could only watch in silent shock and horror as her prized carving burned under Frollo's hand. Her fantasies and dreams were destroyed in one move. She blinked the tears away as her mistress flipped the dagger towards her and the burning figurine landed at her side, the wooden body charred and glowing with dying wisps of smoke rising up from the remains.

"I will free you from his torment, and he shall haunt you no longer." The judge continued as she put away her baselard and picked up the empty basket before beginning to walk out of the bell towers.

"What do you mean?" Quasimoda almost didn't ask, her voice tentative and small as a lone mouse.

Frollo placed her hat on her head and continued towards the steps. "I know where his hideout is, daughter. After many years of searching, I've succeeded. Tonight shall be the final night where the gypsies can call it a 'safe haven,' because tomorrow at dawn," She suddenly turned around to face Quasimoda. "I attack with a thousand men."

Having sealed the Court of Miracles fate with only six words, the judge turned back around the went down the steps as dutifully and proudly as the demeanor forced her to. Quasimoda could feel the sickeningly wicked grin on her twisted old lips. The door to her tower slammed shut and the darkness of her sanctuary set in and left the hunchback on the floor, tears gliding down her cheeks in failure. She'd kept Phoebe safe, but at such a high cost. Esmerald was as good as dead and it was entirely her fault. Frollo had been right all along. A groan came from under the table suddenly and Quasimoda felt nothing, her eyes squeezing shut in emotional turmoil.

"I warned you to keep quiet." She reminded the captain as the blonde pulled herself out from beneath the table.

"Yes," The former captain placed her weight on the toppled stool and pushed herself to her feet. "I'm guessing a kick to the jaw isn't a form of endearment to you." She rubbed the bruise beneath her chin.

Quasimoda scowled at her. "I don't care what happens to you." She growled. "The only reason I didn't sell you out was because of Esmerald and look where it's gotten me."

"Well, it's nice to see we're still on good terms." Phoebe rolled her eyes as a hand drifted to the one still healing suture, clutching it tightly and grunting in pain. She stumbled over to one of the columns across from Quasimoda and leaned on it for support. "But we need to get to the Court of Miracles before dawn."

The hunchback raised an eyebrow, a soft glare leveling on the blonde. "What do you mean 'we?'"

"I mean you and I." Phoebe returned the look. "You're not coming?"

She sighed, a hand covering her face and massaging the oddly shaped muscles. "I can't." The hunchback replied emptily.

"What do you mean you _can't?_ " Phoebe wrinkled her nose a bit. "I thought you were Esmerald's friend." She pointed at the hunchback who'd gotten to her feet.

"You're one to talk." Quasimoda mumbled in a manner that was audible to the injured woman before her.

"What?" She turned red.

The hunchback bristled. "Don't pretend I didn't see you two. Feels a lot like you're more than friends with him." She crossed her large arms with a tone that sounded much more upset than she meant it to be.

"And you're what- jealous?" She accused. Without waiting for an answer the former captain continued. "Are you really so heartsick you don't see the danger he's in? I don't care right now if Esmerald loves me. What matters is his survival, and if you're too much of a coward to stand up for him like he stood up for you-"

The blonde was silenced by the bell ringers beefy hand closing around her jacobite shirt and hoisting her against the column, the wind knocked out of her. Quasimoda's eyes flashed angrily as they had in the steps of the tower.

"You do _not_ get to call me a coward." She snapped. "I have done everything Esmerald has asked me to do and it's given me more courage than I could ever hope to have. I'm not jealous of you, Phoebe. In fact, I don't want to be you. I don't care if Esmerald loves you anymore. You may have captured his heart in your hands, but you do _not_ get to hold that against me after I've risked everything to save both of you!" She lowered the blonde, yet still kept her hold. " _Am I understood?_ "

The former captain quickly nodded, and was released as the bell ringer turned away, her hazel eyes squeezed shut. "Frollo is my mistress," She slowly shook her head. "I can't disobey her anymore."

"You've got a funny way of showing gratitude." Phoebe pushed herself from the column where she'd been held, her other hand gripping at the suture tightly. Quasimoda ignored her jab, unable to face her. A moment of silence passed them both before Phoebe nodded in acknowledgement, knowing the price for disobeying Frollo and knowing that the deformed ginger probably wasn't about to follow her anywhere.

She sighed. "Well, I might not be a soldier but that doesn't mean I'm going to stand by and watch Frollo massacre thousands of innocent people. Enough blood has been shed already." She turned to walk from the bell tower, going down the ladder and to the door. Her head turned once more to the silent young hunchback. "You do what you think is right."

Quasimoda looked on at her friends who were now alive once more. Harry, Victoria and Lorenzo were all looking at her expectantly with various degrees of disappointment sprinkled in for good measure. She scowled at them.

"What?" She frowned. "What am I supposed to do? Go out there and rescue him from the- the jaws of death and then the whole city will cheer for me like I'm some kind of a hero? Esmerald already has his savior and _it's not me_. Not anymore." She paused and wiped her cheek, sniffing a bit. "Frollo was right. She was right about everything. I can't just pretend to be something I'm not; _someone_ I'm not." Her eyes fell to the floor where her figurine of Esmerald lay, his beauty destroyed in the hands of her adopted mother. I wave of realization came over her that the real Esmerald would soon bear a striking resemblance to the figurine if Phoebe didn't get there in time. She didn't even know where the Court of Miracles was. Phoebe didn't know.

But Frollo did.

And Phoebe would never be able to get there in time unless she had help. Esmerald wouldn't stand a chance. None of the gypsies there would. Without her, Frollo would succeed and destroy an entire race of innocent people. Her fingers pulled the band of the necklace Esmerald had left her with and focused on it. She still had absolutely no idea what it was even supposed to do but it would have to wait. Right now she had a clue to saving Esmerald and wasn't about to waste it. As if knowing her decision, Lorenzo held out the little black cloak that had hidden her that day in the Feast of Fools. Quasimoda bit her lip, her arm in limbo for a brief moment before she grabbed it and tied it round her neck.

"I must be out of my mind." She scolded herself before limping as fast as she could to Phoebe before she got lost.

 

* * *

 

 

"Phoebe!" Quasimoda swung her head down at the door she saw opening from her vantage point. The former captain looked ready to keel over from a heart attack, her eyes going wide and nearly jumping a full foot back from the doorway. "I'm coming with you."

She seemed to have calmed down by this point and grinned slightly at the hunchback, who swung down onto the steps before her, her hair half sheltered behind the hood of a cloak. "I'm glad you changed your mind." She leaned into the door for support.

"Can you even walk properly?" Quasimoda questioned.

"No," The woman admitted. "But that's never stopped you. How did you even manage to climb down here so fast anyway?"

The hunchback scowled, ignoring the question. "Look, the last thing I want is you getting killed. I may have stopped Frollo from seeing you in the bell tower back there but my promise still stands."

"You care that much?" The former captain raised a blonde brow, sarcasm beneath her words.

"No." Quasimoda rolled her eyes. "I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing this for him."

"Duly noted." Phoebe mumbled. "But you know where Esmerald is?"

The hunchback shook her head. "No," She flipped the hood back and removed the necklace from behind her long red hair. "But he said this could help us find him."

Phoebe accepted the object, her eyes growing wide as she held it before her, the intricate band twisting slightly in the soft breeze. "Great, good, yes…" She paused for a moment, the smile still carved into her face despite them being no closer to finding Esmerald in time. "What is it?"

Quasimoda shrugged and Phoebe immediately went to work deciphering it, saying something about it being a secret code and twiddling with the intricate threading and beads. The hunchback looked at it, the band being at her eye level and remembering what Esmerald had said to her that night when he'd run off from the cathedral. The bead of the cross looked so familiar. His words entered her mind.

"When you hold this woven band, you hold the city in your hand." She whispered, her large hand wrapping around the twig frame.

"Huh?" Phoebe wrinkled her nose in confusion.

"It's the city!" Quasimoda explained, the little band's grid and beads suddenly becoming much clearer upon that saying.

"What are you talking about?" The blonde immediately pulled the band a bit closer as if Quasimoda had some special power that allowed her to decipher the meaning of the band that she obviously didn't have.

"It's a map!" The hunched young woman explained, her index finger pointing to the strings. "See, this is the cathedral in the center," She pointed to the cross bead in the very middle of the web. "This must be the river," She traced along the cobalt blue yarn. "A-and this little bead has to be the Court of Miracles! This is the answer!"

"What? I've never seen a map like this before. I've spent over ten years of my life in battle and trained myself to every map in the world. I have a pretty good idea of what a map looks like and this is not it." She crossed her arms.

"And I'm telling you it is! I've lived at the top of a bell tower in the center of this city for my entire life, and I have a pretty good idea of what the city looks like from above. We don't have any other leads so unless you feel like wandering this is it." Quasimoda snatched the band from Phoebe who sighed.

"Fine." She admitted. "If you say it's a map, then fine. It's a map. But if we're going to find Esmerald then we have to work together. I get that you may not like it but we don't have any other choice. So what do you say; truce?" Phoebe patted Quasimoda's hunched back.

The ginger frowned at the steps for a moment before relinquishing the band to the former captain. "Well, okay." She agreed with a smile and repeated the same pat on the back to Phoebe, although she wasn't expecting such strength. The blonde sucked a curse through her clenched teeth as the hunchback walked off towards the bridge over the Seine and off the Île de la Cité.

"Sorry." She replied quickly and over her shoulder.

"No you're not." Phoebe called her bluff and followed the limping hunchback down the road and towards the Court of Miracles.

The walk through Paris was pleasantly quiet save for the occasional neigh of a horse in a stable and the collective sounds of their shoes on the dry cobblestones. The heat of the dying fires in the air created a thick fog of steam and mist that settled in every nook or cranny within view. The hunchback and the former captain worked by the distant light of the pale moon to follow the thread roads of the map towards the bead across the little blue river. Neither of them spoke and aside from the occasional grunts of the injured of the two, neither seemed willing to acknowledge the others existence despite the fact that they had agreed to work together for the sake of Esmerald. Quasimoda was fine with that. The sooner they warned Esmerald the sooner she could avoid any further trouble. She wasn't too far gone like Phoebe. Should she remain uninvolved to her mistresses assumptions, she could still seek sanctuary and eventual forgiveness in Notre Dame once this episode concluded and the gypsy boy was safe from harm. She wanted to believe so; but given the chain of events that had unfolded left her plan as stable as a drunken soul at the Feast of Fools. Whether or not she could depend on anything was a risk to be taken, and Quasimoda personally had had enough risks to last her many lifetimes.

She hoped it would be her last, and crossed her fingers as hard and as far as her hand width would allow her to.

Taking a final turn and stroll down the cobblestone road, the eerie figures of people were visible in the wall of fog, moist and smoky shadows making both women squint a bit at them. Only upon closer inspection and the introduction of weary black iron bars did it become abundantly clear they had reached the cemetery of the cathedral. The once sinister figures took holy shapes of crosses and angels and effigies of the long departed; their stone tombs and headstones cold and damp with the settling of the coming dew. Both of them quickened their pace after opening the gate until Quasimoda suddenly halted.

"Why are you stopping?" Phoebe questioned and turned to look at the hunchback.

"How exactly are we supposed to find the Court of Miracles in this place? We could be searching for days!" She gestured to the waves of worn headstones that were placed and toppled along the grass.

Phoebe shook her head. "I'm not sure, but every second we _don't_ look is a second closer to daybreak. There has to be something about this symbol that gives an indication. It's always a trick we used in battle." She tossed the band to Quasimoda, who caught it with slight difficulty, not expecting her to throw it.

The ginger looked at the bead that was sewn into their location, it's inked design likened to that of a ship's wheel. It didn't look familiar at all. She frowned in slight irritation. "Well," She sighed. "I guess we just have to look for the ships wheel somewhere. It's got to be here."

Knowing their goal and what they were looking for, the former captain and the bell ringer began searching through the hundreds of tombstones and mausoleums for the one marked with the sign of the Romani. It hardly proved to be difficult considering they were in a Catholic burial ground, and the fifth one they checked happened to be the lucky one. Locating also it proved easier when Phoebe found a discarded torch and lit it. The light of the glowing orange flame cast shadows along the walls of a decrepit stone mausoleum that was shrouded in dying vines of ivy. With one hand the torch was bared; and with the other the blonde's height to the hunchback's allowed her to move the plant matter to reveal the crest beneath. The tines of a ship's wheel were shadowed in the light. They had found the gateway to the Court of Miracles. Both of them looked at the wheel, an inscription beneath it in a language Quasimoda didn't recognize.

"What does that say?" She questioned the former captain.

"It might be a clue to finding an entrance around here. Good thinking." Phoebe answered and held the torch closer to the engraved stone. "It could take a few minutes to translate. I don't speak Romanian and it's been a long time since I've seen it."

The bell ringer looked around the graveyard from Phoebe's side while the later began to mumble in a foreign tongue. She scanned the adjacent gravestones, their various stone surfaces almost glowing in the light of the distant stars and moon. Every one of them was empty or offerings, or even basic care. Wildflowers and weeds were healthy and thriving on some of them, thick patches of dirt and grass in varying stages of advancement were scattered with the markers of those long gone. Then, something caught her eye. A figure that was stiller than a statue, but his colors were dulled in the darkness of the night. He was sitting, legs to his chest before a nondescript gravestone. His back was arched to where they were. Quasimoda couldn't make out any other details to the man or to the stone he appeared to be mourning silently at; except for a line of fabric wrapped around the bunches of black hair.

So many questions flashed through her head at once, but most importantly: What would he do if he knew she and more importantly, Phoebe, were there?

Suddenly feeling anxious to being heard, the hunchback gripped and felt around the lid of the exposed casket. It was loose. With minimal effort she gave the stone plate a good shove and it planted itself into the grass with a loud thump. She silently prayed Leon hadn't noticed as Phoebe looked on, impressed. "Or we could just go down these stairs." The blonde offered.

Both women descended down the moss covered stone steps, the passageway beneath far darker than the world above. The torch provided their one source of light to the long, wide entrance. Quasimoda was the first to step to the ground and wasn't exactly ecstatic to discover water and sewage had collected at the bottom. Neither of them were bothered by the mild stench of the tunnel, however; and in less than five minutes, both of them were trudging through the dark, mossy passageway the best they could.

"Is this really the Court of Miracles?" Quasimoda looked around as Phoebe walked beside her, the torch bared. In moments the mocking grins of skeletons seemed to stare at them, teeth bared.

Phoebe swallowed, the thoughts of her time in the Palace of Justice returning. At least here the only sound to be heard aside from the torch was the swishing of water at their feet. She frowned. "Well, offhand I'd say this is the Court of Ankle Deep Sewage. These are probably the old Catacombs. They run everywhere under the city with victims of the plagues. Thankfully I was out of town for that."

Quasimoda shivered, not wanting to think of what that must've been like. Another thought came to mind. "Is it even safe to be walking in this stuff?"

The blonde nodded. "I think it's safe. Esmerald had to get in one way or another and last I saw his feet were bare and bloodied."

"What happened to him? I heard Esmerald saying how you healed him." She questioned, unsure if she wanted to even know the answer.

Phoebe grinned a bit. "He broke a window and landed on the glass. I'm glad I stopped and looked otherwise he'd probably have gotten an infection by now." Her smile faded. "And I didn't heal him. I'm a soldier; not a field nurse. Esmerald is someone who can take care of himself, but sometimes I wonder just how much he can handle."

The hunchback nodded, recalling how he'd begrudgingly accepted that he was trapped in the cathedral until she'd carried him out.

Phoebe bit her lip, unsure what to say next. "This place is cheerful." She joked to herself. "Kind of makes you wish you got out more often, eh Quasi?"

She shook her head. "To be honest I think I've been out more than I ever wanted to be. I've had enough adventure in the past few days than I'm ready for. I just want to warn Esmerald and get out of here before we find any more trouble."

The former captain nodded. "Speaking of which, I'm actually surprised we haven't run into any by now."

Quasimoda raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean by that?"

She shrugged. "Trouble. I don't know, a guard… a booby trap, or-" The torch went out. Phoebe gulped. "Or an ambush."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Gotta love a bit of a cat fight. I always figured it was weird how Quasi never tells Phoebus anything about his opinion of him and Esmeralda. I get he may have moved past it but let's be honest: it's his first heartbreak and in real life it takes more than twenty full minutes to get over it; not to mention the fact that he would probably be pretty angry at Phoebus for moving in on his territory.
> 
> Also, when the genders are swapped, it's pretty obvious the "think of your mother" line has more significance considering how she's been treated.


	12. In A Place Of Miracles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Thank you so much for your kudos and such. They make my day! School has been packing the final exams and honestly I don't think this would've gotten written/posted on time without your support. In this chapter we get a lot of key features I mixed from the book and the movie. This is a bit of a milestone as I've gone so far from the movie with this one scene. Anyway, I hope you guys like and review as always! Now, onto the story:

 

The light of many torches burst into existence above both the hunchback and the ex-captain, their heads immediately turning towards the source to see just what sort of trouble awaited them. Within the ledge of the domed catacomb, a plethora of strange men in black costumes and masks laughed in sinister triumph. The two didn't waste a second and Phoebe instantly began to run ahead of the men with Quasimoda limping behind. They got all of three feet in the ankle deep waters before the men released what sounded like a battle cry and jumped from their ledges, falling to the ground like infant birds and surrounding both of them before they got any further, the blonde jumping in surprise and falling back into the muck. She was quickly pulled up and along with Quasimoda, and forced to her knees.

Apparently, Phoebe had been correct in all three regards. They'd found a trap, guards, and had been ambushed by those guards in a matter of five seconds. The former captain struggled with Quasimoda as their arms were pinned and tied behind their backs. A willowy thin shadow seemed to appear out of nowhere, her eccentric violet and lilac attire unmistakeable. Her strange mask was gone and in the shadow of the men's torches Quasimoda could see the playful glint within her eyes that was now matched with a rather sinister smile. She bended down to look at them both, her hands poised on her hips.

"Well, well!" She narrowed her gaze, surveying them both. "What do we have here?"

"Trespassers." One of the men hissed. "Must be a few of Frollo's spies. She's been trying to find us for years by sending her little workers everywhere."

The raven haired puppeteer clicked her tongue. "When will you pathetic little spies learn your lesson? Haven't you always wondered why none of your comrades ever return?"

Phoebe's face drained, her eyes opening wide in realization at what she had heard of to be only rumors. There were disappearances within the guard whenever they were sent to scout on one of Frollo's missions or so she'd so often heard. It suddenly came together and the likely fate of those poor men; however stupid they may have been, was a frightening thought. There was a very clear reason why nobody had ever 'found' the Court of Miracles.

"B-but we're not-" Quasimoda was silenced by a thick gag being tied over her mouth.

"Don't interrupt me!" Clopine bristled. "I'm very disappointed in you, Quasimoda. I would've thought you were above following Frollo. You disobeyed her once." She turned to Phoebe. "And you, the loyal captain of the guard. I certainly don't mind killing you. Have you anything to say for yourself?"

Phoebe scowled. "You have to listen-" She was stopped by a gag being tightened around her mouth and silencing her.

"You're both quite clever to have found our little hideaway," She mused removing two torches from her pocket, the first igniting seemingly out of nowhere. "But you aren't the first, and you won't be the last. One day your mistress may understand our reasons; but unfortunately for now, neither of you will live to tell the tale!" She grinned and lit the second torch, twirling it playfully in her gloved hand like only an expert- or a gypsy - could.

 _"Maybe you've heard or a terrible place where the scoundrels of Paris collect in their lair!"_ She sang while twirling the torches in wild glowing lines about the area. The rest of the group joined in.

Two skulls appeared at either side of Phoebe and Quasimoda, their jaws being worked like puppets to mime the next chorus. _"Maybe you've heard of that mythical place called The Court of Miracles,"_

"Hello, you're there!" Clopine interrupted, popping up in between them to announce what they'd both figured out for themselves.

"Where the lame can walk!" Three seemingly injured men tossed away their crutches. "And the blind can see!" The rest continued.

A row of fully formed skeletons sprung up before the women, twine strings supporting their white, aged bones. "But the dead don't talk!" Clopine cackled swinging a sharpened blade through every body, the bones splashing and clattering to the ankle deep sewage. "So you won't be around to reveal what you've found!"

Suddenly they were being hoisted above and carried by the hundreds of costumed men, their suits being artfully and morbidly decorated with the bones of the deceased to blend into the piles of catacomb remains. Helpless to stop them, Phoebe and Quasimoda were both carried along the hall as Clopine somehow appeared at the ledge of an archway, pointing to them.

 _"We have our methods for spies and intruders; rather like hornets protecting their hive!"_ She fingered the two supposed spies before flipping onto the leading men's shoulders as the group of guards marched through the archway.

 _"Here in the Court of Miracles where it's a miracle if you get out alive!"_ The group finished with a triumphant cheer and laughter as they passed through to the nest of the gypsies: The Court of Miracles.

The darkness of the tunnel only stretched as far as a broken iron gate that was nearly the size of the south tower of Notre Dame. The wrought iron had long ago rusted and fallen providing a partial entrance to a great hall of sorts. The composition of every surface was Parisian sandstone, the thick blocks clean and almost glossy in the light of millions of candelabras and fires. Massive swathes of brightly colored fabrics and silks were draped along the arched ceiling like giant hammocks, the patterns and trims so loud and busy it was as if the entirety of many Feasts of Fools had been hung from the ceiling like a decorative ornament that only got cleaned once a year. The bustle and chatter of the possibly millions of gypsies was a cacophony of untraceable tongue, and music blared from instruments being played throughout the impossibly large space. Entire caravans and brightly painted wagons were parked all over the sandstone floor, the temporary residences seeming very permanent given the amount of things strewn about them as if it were an opened toy box belonging to a less than tidy four year old. The amount of gold alone in this place was enough to render an unready onlooker blind by the flashes of yellow reflections. The smell was a very unpleasant blend between homelessness and tobacco smoke. Quasimoda and Phoebe could smell the stench even through their thick gags. A massive set of gallows stood on the east end of the court, the wooden platform built high enough so that even the weakest soul lying on the farthest and darkest corners of the court could have the pleasure of seeing a hanging. Quasimoda gulped. In all her years of witnessing executions she'd never thought she'd be the subject of one.

Clopine did an incredibly graceful flip from the men's shoulders to the top step of the court. The sea of gypsies turned to face the guards in anticipation. Celestine prided herself in being the unofficial queen of the Romani people within Paris, although she'd only held the title for a remarkably few number of years. Many who had held the title were far older and more experienced than she, but the position, she found, suited her. Sure, she lacked a crown, but her party mask and feather-plumed hat were as true to gypsy kind as any crown or sceptre. As their queen she was also the first one to be informed of any sort of news, refugees or events that could either condemn or spare a person. But given the nature of their operation and the fact that almost their entire network of street gypsies had been apprehended and locked away, Clopine doubted any form of innocence found its way to the fools who found their home.

She took the latter two steps at a time, quickly beating the two prisoners as they were led to the gallows. She released a loud whistle through her gloved fingers. "Gather 'round everybody!" She announced skipping over to one of the rope nooses. "There's great _noose_ tonight!" She exclaimed as a gypsies laughed at the rather overused pun.

Executions had been rather bloody until the court gained an actual carpenter about four years earlier. The method of death ranged from as bloodthirsty as the gypsies felt it should've been given the crime, rank of power, and the offences committed other than trespassing. Given the network of gypsies throughout the city there was hardly a person they didn't have on profile. Clopine herself admitted she preferred this rather mundane way of killing compared to a stoning or a beheading. Bones would be added to the catacombs and so the next fool to tread through wouldn't be suspecting anything telling. It was an elaborate web and as the queen of her people it was only fitting she be the spider to finish the job.

The colorful crowds of the poor and downtrodden were compacted around the gallows now, questions arising as to the identity of the spies who were most certainly going to hang within the next few minutes. Celestine heard their mumbles of curiosity and addressed them the best way she knew how: with enthusiasm and fanfare.

"It's a double-header, ladies and germs! We haven't had that in quite a while, eh?" The crowd roared with cheers of excitement. "And even better, it's a couple of Frollo's spies!"

The cheers quickly turned into boos and shouts of _le atârnă_ that rang throughout the court as the thousands of Romani demanded justice to the wicked. Celestine grinned and with a gesture of her gloved hand the crowd quieted.

"But not just any guard or soldier. No no, we've got her captain of the guard," She gestured to Phoebe before running to her side and forming a salute and rigid face. She then began to limp towards Quasimoda like a zombie. "And her loyal, bell ringing henchmaiden."

More screams of _justiţie_ sounded and Celestine cleared her throat. "The justice in the Court of Miracles is incredibly swift, for I am the lawyer, judge, jury and executioner all in one!" In a flash she changed through three sets of costumes, the last of which was a hat and robes that was an exact replica of Frollo's judge uniform. When Phoebe mumbled something through her gag the queen of the gypsies found it appropriate to knock her multiple times on the head with a miniature gavel.

"We aren't exactly fond of those long, boring, testimony filled trials here; the sentence is really the best part of this whole process. After all it's swift, brutal justice." She donned a black cape and hood that provided a chilling image of an executioner. "Any last words?"

Both women attempted speech through the gags around their mouths. Clopine laughed, pretending to wipe away an imaginary tear. "That's what they all say." She rolled her eyes at them. She cleared her throat.

"So, now that we've seen all the evidence-"

"Wait!" A little voice appeared as Clopines hand raised to reveal a little hand puppet of herself. "I object!" Never in their lives had either women ever been so happy to see a puppet.

The gypsy queen didn't look amused. "Overruled!" She bristled covering the little figure in the black of her judges robes.

"I object!" The puppet seemed to appear on the other hand.

" _Tăcere_ _de_ _păpuși_!"She snapped, stuffing her judges hat over the hand puppet. The little Clopine mumbled a curse of defeat from beneath the velvet fabric of the triangular hat. Laughter roared from the crowd of gypsies at the playful performance.

Clopine appeared next to Phoebe, her hands resting on her shoulders. "We've found that you're totally innocent." She declared, moving to Quasimoda. "Which is the worst crime of all." She finished with the tiniest of smiles. "So you're going to hang!" Clopine sprung up and dashed to the lever that would drop the floor from which Phoebe and Quasimoda were standing on, ending both their lives with their efforts to warn them in vain.

" _Stop!_ " A familiar voice rang in the crowd.

Everyone looked towards the source of the interruption. This included the queen of the gypsies, though her gloved finger still rested weakly on the lever as if still willing to carry on with the execution should the one naysayer remain unidentified. Quasimoda scanned the thousands of glittering gypsies, and a familiar white goat nudged through the front row before a tawny skinned young man burst forth, his toned arms pushing his bloodthirsty comrades out of the way. If looks could kill, the three of them would be dead as doornails. Both women called out to Esmerald from the platform in relief; muffled through their gags of course.

Esmerald was quick up the steps of the gallows as he turned to Clopine. "These two aren't spies! They're friends!" He motioned to the two before walking over to Phoebe and began working at untying the ropes around her wrists.

Clopine gaped and her hands flew into the air dramatically. "Well why didn't they just say so?"

"Because one of them shouldn't have to!" A voice came from the entrance to the central catacomb of the court.

A man stood at the foot of the steps and stormed towards the gallows. Quasimoda felt her jaw drop as the gag fluttered to the floor and in a moment the ropes bind slackened, the gypsy boy having freed her from the justice system of the Court of Miracles. His boots and cane were gone. His teeth were clenched as he took the steps two at a time and Clopine suddenly backed away from the lever that she'd been so enthusiastic to pull only moments before, her face draining.

His empty eyes were dark with rage as he traversed the gallows platform like a charging bull towards the gypsy queen who seemed to back further and further away from the man who was almost twice her size and in comparison a head taller than Esmerald. He looked as if he were ready to snap the girl in half like a twig. He towered over the girl who seemed to cower in terror. A hand reached out, hoisting her up into the air as he looked towards the small whimper that came from the gypsy. Everyone stared at the pair, silent and idle despite the obvious chance there was of someone getting seriously injured.

"I told you; no," He said through clenched teeth, his voice full of power he'd so often lacked when with Quasimoda. "I _warned_ you so many times. Since when does an arrogant little girl get to decide someone's life without even _considering_ who they are?!"

Clopine struggled to say something in return, fear filled eyes gazing at the blind man. "L-Leon, please, listen! I didn't know if she could be trusted… I would never have hurt her!"

The sculptor growled. "You should've saved your little musical number and gotten me. Do you have _any_ idea what you could've done if someone hadn't stopped you?!"

"Leon, please!" She was begging now. "I-I'm sorry, I-"

"You _what?_ " He cut her off. "Choose your next words carefully Celestine unless you want them to be your last."

Quasimoda felt herself speaking before she realized it. "Don't!" She suddenly blurted. Everyone then stared at her and the hunchback's face went red. Leon seemed to remember she was there and the sound of the gypsy queen hitting the gallows floor echoed as he took a step towards her.

She gulped. "I-I'm alright Leon. P-please." Her eyes drifted to Clopine- Celestine, as he'd called her. "Don't hurt anyone. There's no need."

His jaw worked a bit and slowly, the man nodded in compliance, his eyes falling to the floor like a scolded dog. Clopine got to her feet and maneuvered around the man who'd nearly killed her out of temper. She looked at Phoebe with drawn out hate before turning to Esmerald. "I apologize for our behavior," She seemed to begrudgingly admit while dusting herself off. "But granted neither of you are in high favor anyway. You, I can trust." She gestured to the hunchback. "But you," She chuckled darkly and shook her head. "You and your men have caused more harm to us than any captain of the guard in their entire careers, much less in a span of three days. Tell me Esmerald, what makes her an ally?"

The gypsy boy fixed his gaze and looked the purple clad gypsy in the eyes. "This is the captain who not only abandoned Frollo, but she saved the millers family and me. Without her aid I probably wouldn't be here and for that I think she's more than deserving of our trust. She's a fugitive like me. From what you've said yourself news sources haven't exactly been reliable in the past few days given Frollo's agenda."

"That I can agree with." Clopine shot a glare at Phoebe, obviously not trusting her. "But I'll believe it when I see it."

Phoebe returned the glare. "Likewise. Keep in mind I want this massacre to end, and unless you choose to believe us now we're all doomed."

Leon looked up at her, his brow raised. "Just what are you saying?"

The captain then walked up to the stage the best she could, and stood at the edge of the gallows. "When we came to the Court of Miracles we were trying to warn you." The former captain began in a loud voice that echoed across the entire nest of gypsies. "Both Quasimoda and I are witnesses. Frollo knows where this sanctuary is and is planning to attack within the space of an hour with a thousand men!"

Within only moments mumblings of worry and angst began to increase in magnitude and volume. Several people began shifting and one or two began to panic. Both Leon and Esmerald visibly shook and Quasimoda gulped, realizing just how close that window of an hour was. Clopine's tawny face drained for the second time that night in fear. Her pupils trembled.

"How did she find us?" She questioned breathlessly.

Esmerald shook his head. "Does it matter? We have to evacuate before she's at our doorstep. We can't take any chances!" His own voice carried across as the thousands of Romani people began to scatter from around the gallows and across the ground, tripping over each other with piles of glittering gold and colorful fabric like rhinestone encrusted ants. The creak of old wagon wheels echoed over the frantic commands of men and women desperate to leave with belongings and livelihoods intact. Leon and Clopine quickly abandoned the gallows without a word and joined the effort to remove their people from the soon to be compromised sanctuary to the poor and lost souls. Esmerald and Phoebe climbed down the gallows steps and the ginger hunchback followed slowly, the series of confusing events prior to warning the thieves and strumpets making her pause in thought, when that was in all honesty the most inappropriate thing to have been doing at the time.

The gypsy boy sighed. "I honestly can't say enough about you, captain." He smirked in wonder. "You save a family, take seventeen arrows, heal in the course of an hour and suddenly you're back saving my skin again?"

"I do my best." She returned the smile. "Besides, I still owed you for the healing you did."

The teenager scoffed. "Really? So this was all about repaying me?" He grinned slyly.

"Of course not." Phoebe brushed off his question. "It was doing the right thing." Quasimoda limped down the steps and the blonde looked back to her hunched companion. "Besides, if it wasn't for Quasimoda I never would've found my way here."

"Nor would I." A confident voice cackled from the gate.

Everyone turned to the source of the voice and terrified screams and shouts in foreign tongue erupted from all around the gypsy colony. Judge Frollo stood at the steps of the court, her hands clasped in satisfaction. An unpleasantly confident smirk was etched into the wrinkles of her angular face, and her grey eyes watched with a pleasant demeanor as the thousand-men-escort dispersed themselves throughout the hall. Waves of panicked Romani dropped their belongings; having decided fleeing was a better alternative given their collective worst threat and enemy was now seizing their home. Gypsies scattered like insects whose colony had been smashed by a clumsy preschooler's shoe. They ran by twos and by threes as the soldiers chased after them, pointy ended pikes stopping their advances as they blocked every possible exit. Quasimoda felt her stomach drop as she watched the people being herded into the waiting arms of tyranny, their chances survival snatched from them. Neither Esmerald, Phoebe or her had any chance of fleeing the thousand men who with their weapons outnumbered an army of truants almost three times their size. They were surrounded in less than two seconds on every side, the sharp pikes pointed and poised should they attempt any form of escape. In her ears rung the wild cursing of Clopine and Leon as well as the growling of her friends as they were apprehended. She didn't see it, however, as her eyes were trained on her adopted mother.

Her grey eyes were filled to capacity with a soulless form of joy, her once simply satisfied smile becoming extremely unpleasant and disturbing to view at it opened wider and wider. Sinister shadows filled her wrinkles and dimples that rarely ever showed themselves. If there was one thing Quasimoda could've chosen to completely wipe from her mind forever it would've been that smile. Her mistress cackled wickedly as she strolled down from the steps and slowly walked over to where she and her allies were being held. The pikes to her lowered, the real threats having been stopped.

"After nearly twenty five years of searching," She surveyed the glittering haven. "The Court of Miracles is mine at last." She didn't look at her daughter, her eyes trained in the gypsy boy behind her. She walked past the hunchback, a bony hand petting her ginger locks in appreciation. "My dear Quasimoda," Tears filled her own hazel eyes. "I always knew that you would someday be of use to me."

The deformed young woman shook with a sob. "No," She didn't want to believe it.

Apparently neither did Esmerald. "What are you talking about," He growled through clenched teeth as the elderly judge approached him. The gypsy boy was obviously struggling to free himself from the gauntlets of the soldier.

"Why she led me right to you, my dear boy." Frollo answered slyly, a bony index finger caressing his chin.

He gave a harsh tug with an animalistic sound, anger coursing through his veins as even the soldiers seemed to falter keeping their grasp. "You're a liar." He seethed.

Frollo's smile didn't falter. "I suppose you're correct, little incubus. She wasn't the only one I was following." Her eyes left the gypsy boy for a moment. "But I would be more concerned about myself right now, if I were you."

"Too bad you're not." His green eyes flashed with vibrant rage. The judge ignored him and moved on.

"And look what else I've caught in my little net. Captain Phoebe, back from the dead! Why they don't call this rathole the Court of Miracles for no reason, now do they?" The blonde pulled herself forward as if she desired to kill Frollo with whatever she could in that moment, seeing as her hands were held behind her back. Had she been given a go, Quasimoda wouldn't have been surprised if she succeeded even without both hands or arms.

Frollo grinned sinisterly. "Don't you worry dear." She said to the blonde. "We shall be certain to remedy this mistake." She turned to the next person in the line up. Leon looked at the ground, behaving nothing like the past two prisoners. "And how could I forget you, my dear?" Frollo began, staring him down. "What good is looking away doing, Leon? We all know you can't see me. Too afraid are we? Too afraid to look me in the eyes, like the scared little boy you are?" She clicked her tongue. "I'm sorry we had to be meeting like this again." Her garish, jeweled hand touched the goatee on his chin, pulling his face up to meet hers. "I would've definitely preferred to have done so under less barbaric circumstances."

For a moment anger entered his blind eyes, his brow contorting with rage everyone saw he was capable of. Leon looked ready to break the arms of his guard and destroy the elderly judge who mocked him so. But instead of a retort, he lowered his head again and left the judge without a response she apparently didn't care about. Frollo strolled back to the steps and cleared her throat.

"There will be a little bonfire in the square outside the cathedral in a few hours time at dawn and all of you are invited to attend. I'm sure it will be a time to remember." She announced as the Romani looked in slight apprehension to what her plan was. Frollo turned to her nearest soldiers. "Until then, lock these vermin away in the Palace of Justice; and be sure to reserve two cells for those two gentlemen over there." She indicated to Leon and Esmerald. "I have something very special in mind for them and would hate to not have the guests of honor in attendance." With the order given, the soldiers began to drag the cuffed and bound gypsies away to the Palace of Justice. Frollo turned and began to walk out of the court.

Quasimoda felt a surge of energy rush through her. Her large fingers closed around the edges of her adopted mother's robes. "Mistress, no, please!" She begged as her friends were tugged away to their fates.

Frollo's head craned back to view the broken girl who'd finally proven her use after twenty full years of care. Her eyes held no emotion within to her sniveling daughter's pleas for her companions to be spared. It would go unanswered. Quasimoda realized this in only moments and her grip suddenly slackened. The footsteps of Frollo echoed in her near deaf ears as she toppled forward, too weak with guilt and emptiness to protest or even pick herself up from the dirty sandstone floor. Tears leaked from her eyelids as reminders of her failure washed through like the gushing tides of the Seine.

"Once you're through carting these prisoners from the establishment, burn it down. We can't take the chance of a new bird roosting in the old nest. As for those who hide, they'd better come out now unless they'd rather burn in hell with the rest of their people." Frollo announced to the slowly emptying court as the protests of many gypsies broke through the silence but went unheard by the judge who continued on her way out.

"And as for her," It was obvious she was now talking about the mess of a woman on the ground. "Take her back to the bell tower and make sure she stays there. I don't care what those measures are so long as they keep her in her place." The judge turned her nose at her adopted daughter.

Quasimoda felt the strength of the soldier's gauntlets lifting her weak shell from where she mourned her failure to everyone. She felt them drag her limp legs along the sandstone, her hosen offering little protection to the cold, hard, and rough realities of her choices. She had been able to save Esmerald. She'd warned the gypsies. She'd disobeyed her mistress countless times in the past few days when only a week ago the very notion of such an adventure had seemed completely absurd. Quasimoda sobbed through the darkness of the tunnel that she'd only just started down; the adventure she'd never even wanted to find but somehow found anyway. As much as she'd contributed, as much as she'd fought, there was nothing left to fight at this point. Gone was hiding and skirting her problems and gone was artfully bending and reshaping her mistresses rules. Gone was the ignorance of her stereotypes and gone was any hope to recapture them.

Gone was any chance that her friends would survive the next few hours, and gone was her involvement. She'd told herself she was doing the right thing. All Quasimoda could hope now was that whatever awaited him was a fate better than her own.

* * *

The darkness of his cell was a mirror's reflection to his fate and his future. The sound of scurrying rats and the moans of the souls lost made Esmerald shiver with guilt for the first time in a very long time. He was a gypsy who looked out for his own or so he'd liked to believe. He liked to believe a lot of things, even when it wasn't in his best interests. These past few days had given him faith in the impossible, in the unachieveable. For a rather pessimistic person who before had only barely scraped by, he had been so hopeful that he and everyone else could be safe. Hope was a key to many things, people had told him all his life. Without hope there was nothing to strive for. Without such things there was no reason to continue. He'd lost faith and hope after so much injustice; becoming tired of believing in what could be done for the better. He'd forgotten there was good and light in the dark streets of Paris, until he'd decided to stand up for a mistreated girl at the Feast of Fools. He'd forgotten hope existed.

It had been nice, to consider a happy ending to his story now as he'd once done in his orphaned youth. In the arms of only himself, on the coldest of nights he'd dreamed of being wealthy, of being safe and warm. Of being wanted as he never had been. There was a reason he found family within his own people and the bell ringer. They were similar people, however differently they'd handled their vices and struggles. He'd chosen to stand up for her that day, to bring light to the city's corruption that he'd suffered under and knew others also did. He'd had enough of it.

And yet, knowing what would happen within the next few hours, it was immensely depressing to have all of that hope leave him on the wings of an angel; to have it ripped from him by Frollo. She'd taken so much from so many people. They'd been so close to beating her and finally their luck had run out at the worst possible moment. Now, he would be lucky to be avoiding her disgusting and creepy advances and she hadn't even made eye contact with him since he'd been dragged from the Court of Miracles with another gypsy, Leon.

He was reclining against the stone wall across from him on the other end of the bars, the vacant look in his eyes reflecting a distant existence Esmerald could only guess what he'd lived through. He'd never known Leon's name when he'd existed on the streets or in the Court of Miracles. He'd heard the name through his hunchbacked friend and until only a few hours ago he never would've guessed the man he'd seen stumbling about the streets with a very real impairment and the condemned gypsy who apparently shared the bell tower with Quasimoda were one and the same. Esmerald had also witnessed what amounted to a blank slate emotion-wise with the other man. Leon's blindness fit him like a glove as it showcased exactly who and what he was: A man with little to his name and a man whose inner-self remained as blinded to the world as he physically was. He was an enigma wrapped in a riddle wrapped in God knew what else.

The two men had yet to speak to each other since they'd been placed in the same room, the only thing separating them a wall of iron bars that split their cell in half. Such an arrangement a matter of convenience or by Frollo's request neither of them knew or felt like discussing. The door to Esmerald's side of the little prison suddenly swung open to reveal a soldier. In his gauntlets he held a pile of clothes that were simple and white. Without a word, he closed the door, leaving the garments folded on the floor before retreating. Why exactly he did so was unknown to Esmerald. They weren't bound or cuffed in any way and given their mentality over the past hour weren't planning to escape. It wouldn't have amounted to anything and even Esmerald knew it was useless to fight this time. The other gypsy turned at the sound of the door before looking back towards the tiny window that allowed a thin stream of moonlight through its wrought iron bars.

"You'll want to put those on." He said simply.

Esmerald raised an eyebrow. "How did you know these were clothes?" He picked up the pile of white. "From what I've seen you're one of the few gypsies whose blindness isn't a ploy for pity."

A gruff chuckle filtered through the other man's mouth and Esmerald figured he'd probably struck a nerve. "I can tell those are clothes because what else would we be expecting? Tea and madelines? No," His head shook. "I know how this place works. It's either you put on the clothes, or they put them on for you."

The gypsy boy frowned at the simple white shirt and pants and looked at Leon for a split second. The blind man gestured to his eyes as if to remind Esmerald he wasn't going to see anything. With a small sigh, the gypsy boy decided dawning his death attire could wait a bit longer. He had to have some time before they came and got him for the 'bonfire.' He set the outfit on the bench he himself was sitting on.

Leon seemed to notice he wasn't complying with his advice. "I see you're a stubborn one. That could be a good thing."

Esmerald raised a raven eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

He sat a little straighter on the bench. "Frollo doesn't appreciate stubborn people. I have to admit, I'm impressed you've made it this far. After all," He sighed. "We both know what comes next."

The gypsy boy bit his lip, a sudden hint of curiosity entering his system. "You know what's coming." He started.

Leon nodded. "I know she wants you, and I know what she's done to find you. Let me just say congratulations." He said with sarcasm dripping off his tongue. "Whether or not you want it, Frollo always gets what she wants."

Esmerald released a dry, mirthless chuckle. "So you're saying I should just take this? Take _her?_ " He shivered at the thought, the disgusting vision of Frollo taking him again and again. Nobody wouldn't be afraid of that.

Leon huffed, unimpressed. "Whenever you fight her, bad things happen."

"And you know this?" Esmerald countered despite almost not wanting to hear the answer. "Just what sort of bad things happen?"

Even with blinded and empty eyes the younger man seemed to falter under his cellmates scowl. It faded after a moment, but remained within. "She's being merciful really, giving you the choice."

"A choice of what." Esmerald asked despite having a very good idea what his choices were.

"Be hers or be dead." Leon frowned harder at him. "What else did you think those clothes are for?"

"So you're telling me death is being merciful?" He questioned cynically.

"Compared to what she's done to me I wish I'd had that choice." The gypsy snapped, his jaw clenched. "But I never did." He shook his head as his gaze listed towards the ground. "I never could."

Esmerald raised an eyebrow, suddenly wondering what there was to this man he'd never given much thought to. What laid behind his defences? He had no right to know and parts of him didn't want to know, but he pressed on anyway. "What do you mean: you never could?"

Leon looked up at him, his eyes cold and unforgiving through a scowl that scolded, telling him he wasn't interested in talking anymore. And yet he still did after a moment of silent thought. He sighed and seemed to relax a bit, as if he were about to start a long novel. "Have you ever known your family, Esmerald?"

The question struck home hard. He gulped and shook his head, responding with a no. Leon rolled his eyes slightly. "Let me rephrase that. Have you ever watched someone you care about die?" The gypsy nodded. "And have you ever gone out of your way to keep something like that from happening again?" Guilt rose like a lump in the back of his throat. He should have. But he didn't. Esmerald shook his head and answered 'no' again.

Leon sighed and a stretch of silence encompassed the cell. "I'm going to tell you a story. In the end you'll know more than you ever wanted, and you'll have all your answers. But if you say anything about this to anyone outside, I will personally save Frollo the trouble of killing you. Got it?"

Esmerald nodded, recalling the easy show of wrath and strength that the other man was capable of.

"I was almost fifteen when me and my family left our home for Paris. We'd only been able to take a few things with us when leaving. I'm not sure what was left for any of our kind back there. We worked our way along Europe with what gold we could earn, and bargained off most of our remaining possessions for safe passage. Soon after embarking, my mother fell pregnant with her second, and gave birth someplace outside of France. She was named Daniela, and even with our newest edition finding sanctuary became all the more a priority with an infant on our hands.

We finally reached Paris in mid January, paying numerous peasants to shelter us for up to days at a time. Money became scarcer as did reliable sanctuary. People were whispering of a cruel judge who hated gypsies with a heart as cold and grey as stone. 'Judge Frollo could have our heads for helping these folk,' we often heard. Our plan at the time was to reach Notre Dame; and finally a month before my fifteenth birthday and sixth months after her, we reached a bargain with a ferryman who could row us down the Seine and within three blocks of the cathedral. We had to pawn our parents wedding rings for enough gold to pay him, but we decided it was worth it. We'd reached our destination late in the night. I was just about to pay the ferryman when we were ambushed by a brood of soldiers on the docks. We didn't have any chance to escape them.

Judge Frollo then rode up on her horse; somebody had probably tipped off our plan, and arrested my father and the ferryman. One of the guards began harassing my mother for the bundle that held my sister. Our mother didn't speak French at the time and neither did the rest of us, but when Frollo passed my sister off as stolen goods and tried to take her away from us I attacked and managed to let my mother escape Frollo for the moment. I was quickly knocked out and my arm was broken by a guard in the process of apprehending me. I never saw my mother or sister again after that."

He cleared his throat and is was clear he was getting choked up retelling his story. "I woke up in the Palace of Justice, in a cell opposite my father. Neither of us knew if our mother or Daniela were alive at that point. Frollo and her men dragged my father away after a day, and I never saw him again. Then the judge came down for me."

_The scent of ever present death filled the cell in which the minor resided, the sounded of shouts and crying providing a very unwelcome distraction to the young Leon. He looked wearily out of his cell to the dark hallway, the only light source to be seen a barred window across the way and far enough that the light the sun offered barely touched his toes. The cell across from him was painfully silent, and had been for many hours. He'd shouted at the top of his dry, dehydrated voice for them to leave his father alone, but those cries fell on very deaf ears. He had nothing to say and no emotion to say it with. There was no knowledge of what became of any of his family; of his parents or his infant sister._

_Then, a familiar black robed figure blocked the shadow of the light, her familiar pale features making Leon's legs go limp. Fear crawled through every bone in his body like an unstoppable ivy, and yet he didn't move from his spot; even when the judge turned to his cell and removed a key from her pocket._

" _Get off, boy," She snipped at him with a sharp tongue. "Unless you wish to be left alone."_

_Leon complied and relinquished his iron grip on the bars, his broken arm in a simple splint that seemed to do the trick. The judge opened the cell, entering before closing the door. The hilt of a sword was quite visibly wrapped about her waist, as if to remind the gypsy boy that should he try anything he would bleed out on the floor. Frollo looked at him with disgust as she had the first night she'd encountered him on her black steed._

" _What did you do with my father." He growled at her. The judge raised an eyebrow._

" _Your father? You mean the rat who lived across from you?" She questioned condescendingly. Leon glared hatefully. "He's dead, boy, as is the ferryman who helped you into this city."_

_He blinked, the strength and anger being washed away by a wave of grief and emptiness. He felt moisture gathering on his eyes as his lips drew into a thin line. His voice cracked as he opened his mouth. "And-" He hid a hiccup. "And my mother." A small amount of hope coursed through his veins. If she had escaped-_

" _Dead." Frollo replied. "It would appear you and your… sister, are now orphans."_

_Leon gulped, the thought of his mother heeding his advice and still failing a bitter pill to swallow. He'd done all he could to keep her and his sister safe. His sister. "Daniela," He began. "My sister is still alive?"_

_The judge nodded. "As repentance for killing your mother; entirely by accident, the only way to right my vice is to provide her misshapen offspring with care."_

_Misshapen. The word felt wrong. At birth his sister had been a sight of terror for the midwife who'd delivered it premature, but his mother had never looked at her with fear or disgust. She was her child, and to his mother she was the most beautiful baby in all of Europe. Their Daniela was judged by God, as the name meant, but she was no less a child than Leon was. In the eyes of her family, she was a gift of uniqueness. And despite not knowing if the judge was a fit mother, Leon understood from the tone Frollo had used to describe Daniela meant she would not be treated with the love of a decent parent._

" _You have no right." He shook, anger rising in his voice. "Y-you. Have. No. Right."_

_The judges face puckered. "I have every right." She corrected him. "It may be an inconvenience to me but it is God's wish that I retain care over Quasimoda."_

_Leon wanted to attack her despite knowing he couldn't. Quasimoda. She wasn't theirs anymore. It was an insult to him. "Don't call her that." He snarled. "I'm the last family she has, please, let her be with me. We can work something out."_

" _I'm afraid that is not possible. You are to be executed within another day. You are of no use to me." She said simply._

The gypsy boy felt himself blinking at the other man. "What did you do?"

Leon huffed, as if to mock his past decisions. "What I had to. I said I could be of use to her." His eyes suddenly widened and he shivered, as if he'd regained his sight only to be greeted with a horrible memory.

" _How could a pathetic urchin like you ever be of use to me?" She wrinkled her nose at the boy who stared at her with hard and steely eyes._

" _I can be what you want. A soldier, maybe. Anything. I'll do whatever it takes to keep myself alive." He'd neglected to state his sudden reason for desiring to live when only moments before he'd seemed quite reserved to his fate. Frollo scanned the blossoming youth with suspicion and a sudden feeling crept over her. She looked into the innocence of his fear, the dampness of those beautiful eyes. Frollo could think of a very good use for the boy who begged before her to be spared. He_ had _said anything._

_A small grin kept over her slightly withering face, a bony hand finding its way to his leg. "I'm quite sure I'll find something for a spirited young man like you."_

"And so she took me with her to find an apprenticeship, assuring me Quasimoda was in good hands. I took up sculpting and was able to make enough to live comfortably in my cell for a year or so. Around that time, Frollo decided I needed to prove my worth."

_He sat on the bench of his cell, his hands busy carving what only he could envision within a simple block of stone. The gold he earned was nowhere near enough for bail but it was definitely enough to bribe the guards and soldiers who strolled past for food and water. It wasn't a pleasant existence in the darkness of his prison, but he reminded himself he was doing it for his sister. He'd get to free her one day soon, if he got along well enough with the judge._

_But when she opened his cell door in the middle of the night with rope, he never saw what was coming next. His tools dropped and clattered to the cold stone floor. Frollo's eyes gleamed with hunger; and it was a gleam of something Leon somehow recognized. Lust._

"No," Was all Esmerald could say, his eyes shutting.

"I didn't want to." Leon shook his head slowly. "But Frollo didn't give me the choice she's offering you."

" _N-no," He whimpered as her shadow loomed over him, her fingers prying at the white of his buttoned shirt. "Please," The protests became weaker as he suddenly felt light headed._

" _You said you could be of use to me, Leon. Were you lying?" She smiled deviously down at him._

" _No!" He yelped. "Not like this; anything else. Please."_

_She cackled. "Don't you get it boy? It was that word that got you into this mess. Unless you want me to be rough," Her nail-like claws dug into his tawny skin and he cringed with pain. "And you want to protect your monster of a sister. The repentance can be forgotten."_

_He nearly lost the meager meal of bread and cheese, his stomach churning as he felt tears rolling down his face. His breath was ragged. "N-no!" He hiccuped. "I'll be g-good."_

" _I'm glad you see it my way." Frollo hissed softly._

Esmerald worked his jaw, uncomfortable feelings of familiarity clawing at his stomach and extremities. He knew just what Frollo was imagining that day she'd held him down in the cathedral, his arm aching in searing pain. He'd seen himself tied to a lavish bed, and chose to ignore the disgusting image from that point forward. To know someone else had had to deal with that was a terrifying thought. But as worried as he was, Esmerald had to acknowledge his cellmate was correct. He didn't have family to hold over his head. Frollo could only hurt him and him alone.

But Leon had a sister. A little sister, who was only a baby when brought to the cathedral. She was cared for by Frollo, called a monster. Her name was-

"Quasimoda." Esmerald said, barely above a whisper. "She's your sister." It suddenly made so much sense. Why he never spoke. Why he almost killed Celestine in the Court of Miracles. All his reasons, all that he'd said was to protect her. Leon grunted and gave his cellmate a small nod. "And you never told her," Esmerald pressed, suddenly wondering if Quasimoda had put two and two together in her bell tower.

"It was part of our deal." He answered. "I was to never go near her. Just to be her little _victim_ and live knowing she'd survived another week. If I hadn't been there, Frollo probably would've killed her within another week, eternal soul be damned."

The gypsy boy scoffed. "Just how long has this been happening?"

Leon frowned, his voice going lower. "Let's just say longer than you, kid." That was informative enough. He gulped, but didn't acknowledge his age.

"You never once fought back? How could you stand all this?"

The sculptor glared. "Remember what I told you? Whenever you fight Frollo, bad things happen." He paused, his head tilting to the ground for a moment as if ashamed. "I knew Quasimoda was alive, but after two years of near constant rape I couldn't take it anymore. When she came to me one night I refused to let her touch me until I saw my sister, and to say the least she didn't take it well."

_Her hands flew and wrapped around his neck lifting him to face her, possessing eerily surprising strength for a woman her age. Frollo's soulless eyes bore into Leon's, the healthy brown shrinking in slight terror. "What did you say to me?" She hissed._

_Leon knew he was afraid but buried it. The horrors he faced almost weekly reminded him why he was finally standing up to her. "I said I'm not going to be your little toy anymore." He growled in response. "Not until I see her."_

_A sharp, cold blade pressed to his chest, her baselard making its presence known to the boy she still held with one hand. "You do not get to demand anything from me you pathetic bastard. You will do as I say or else your hideous sister pays the price."_

_He felt a hand gathering strength with his anger. "You don't get to hold Daniela against me Frollo." He seethed through clenched teeth. "N-not," His hand felt the fabric of her robes. "Not anymore!" With a shove, her grip slackened and he fell to the ground._

_Before he could get up a boot stomped onto his back and he shouted in agony. He blinked weakly as the oxygen was knocked from his lungs. Suddenly his skull vibrated as something made contact; one of his carvings. Stars flashed in his darkened vision as her arm swung down and hit the back of his head again. And again. And again. He blacked out by the sixth strike, or so he'd thought._

"And Frollo made sure I'd never see her again." He shook his head slowly. Esmerald could only look in complete shock. Frollo was capable and willing to do that to a fifteen year old boy. If she was perfectly willing to abuse someone more innocent and less deserving of that fate, then Leon was right. He was getting off easy.

"And after I was… disabled," He paused. "Frollo took me to the church and tested my sculpting abilities. I could still focus my trade even without sight. Why, I haven't really figured that out. But she told me I was free to mingle with my sister so long as I never said anything of myself to her. I didn't realize she was tricking me again."

Esmerald raised an eyebrow. Leon sighed. "It's my own form of punishment. I've had to watch her grow up all these years, but I've been watching a stranger grow. I kept her in the dark her entire life when I could've told her the truth, all because I was too afraid of Frollo. She did it to show me what was at stake, and who was really pulling the strings. I told her I wouldn't be her puppet; but I only ended up becoming her most prized one. That's what's so dangerous about her: she takes what you have, what you love; and she turns it into your greatest weakness."

"Of course, all this could've been avoided had you not gotten her involved." He pointed out focusing on the teenager across from him with dead and empty eyes that carried enormous emotion despite their lack of functioning.

Esmerald was slightly taken aback. "Excuse me?"

"It was always my job to see she was taken care of." He narrowed his gaze. "If you hadn't been-"

The gypsy boy stood up. "I got her onto that platform. Did you expect me to just watch her get hurt because of it?"

"I expected her to remain where she was after what you did. Suddenly she's going out of her way to save you when it only means she'll pay the price when I can't stop her."

"And did you really think she'd take your advice?" Esmerald countered. "She's a grown woman, Leon. And to her you're still just the man you claim to be. If I could've healed Phoebe and fled on my own I would have, but unless I wanted a life on my hands I had no other choice."

"You already had a life on your hands." He nearly snarled. "When you brought my sister in on your escape, you carried her fate with you. No amount of pleading on my part could've saved her if Frollo hadn't been feeling merciful."

"You don't think I knew the risks? I did what I had to do." He answered, his face heating up.

"Have you even considered how much of this is for her own good?" The blind man argued, his voice rising slightly.

"You're talking about her own good? You're the one who's too much of a goddamn coward to even show her the truth!"

A moment of deathly silence settled over the room like in the cold emptiness of a mausoleum. His eyes leveled in a burning glare and for a moment Esmerald shrunk back, anticipating a brutal attack. But Leon was quiet. For a moment, the gypsy felt as if he needed to apologize for his insults. He had no reason to be attacking anyone; much less a blind man who had the most heartbreaking and complex background Esmerald had ever heard. It wasn't fair to take shots at him, especially since Leon's words did have truth to it. He had endangered Quasimoda from the very beginning, and there was no fixing that.

Esmerald sighed. "If it makes you feel any better, I regret it." Leon worked his jaw.

"It doesn't." He shook his head. "But the past is in the past. I suppose these next few hours will be our last ones, anyhow."

He frowned, choosing to ignore that statement and answer more. "One thing I'm curious about." Esmerald tested his luck. "What were you doing earlier, on the bell towers?"

"Well I'm blind, in case you haven't noticed." He answered simply.

"No," Esmerald countered. "There's more than that. Why were you looking towards me when you can't see?" He paused. "And what did Frollo mean Quasimoda 'wasn't the only one' she followed to the Court of Miracles?"

"I was finding a way out of the bell towers that Frollo wouldn't know about. I may have worked there for years but only she knew the passageways. If Frollo knew I was up there that late at night it wouldn't have been pretty. As for who else she followed, I barely heard Celestine's song from where I was in the graveyard. Frollo must've seen me going in."

The gypsy boy frowned. "What were you doing out there?" He asked.

"I was in a graveyard… what did you think I was doing?" The other man countered sarcastically. A moment of consideration and silence passed.

Esmerald sighed quietly, looking up at Leon. "Why did you tell me all this? It's not like Quasimoda or anyone will ever know."

"Because it's a last request." He answered. "You're probably going to outlast me, as sad as that sounds."

"What do you mean last request?" The gypsy crossed his arms in confusion.

"I mean I want you to do yourself and me some justice. Remember what she did to me, and think if that's really what you want. Like I said, death is mercy, because," He looked cynically out the barred window at the smoky, blood red sky. "Anything is better than choosing Frollo."

Esmerald refrained from saying he understood, because he simply couldn't. They were both victims to Frollo but that was their only connection other than a case of before and after. Leon looked for a moment as if he were about to respond, until the sound of the cell door unlocking rung in the shared room. Light from a healthy torch spilled in through the small crack in the hall. The door on his side opened, and Esmerald could only watch as the judge entered Leon's side of the cell, and set the torch in a long rusted holster.

"Speak of the devil." Leon scowled at the door. Frollo didn't seem to be phased.

"Such a rude greeting." She clicked her tongue. "And here I thought you'd be glad to see me."

"I can't recall ever being happy to see you, Claudia." He growled in response. It was the first time Esmerald had ever heard anyone call the judge by her first name. It was strange to assume someone so strange and disgusting even had a first name.

The judge strolled closer, a bony finger tracing his goatee. "Oh, but you always are. Don't try to deny it boy." She stared into his vacant eyes. "I know your movements by now. Even the disfigured hold some human emotion. Take your sister, for example."

His gaze fell to the floor as it had in the Court of Miracles. "Don't talk about her." He growled softly. "You want me, and you've got me. Do what you want, but leave her out of it."

"If that is what you must have to go quietly, so be it." She quipped, seemingly annoyed that she'd allowed Leon to have terms. "But let us forget about her and cut to the chase." She clapped her hands expectantly. The gypsy stood, and his hands drifted to his shirt.

Esmerald's eyes widened as he realized what was coming next and coughed. Both souls on the other side of the bars stopped and looked at him. Frollo's mouth puckered as if blaming Esmerald for simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time and ruining the one sided desire and lust she held for his cellmate. The judge walked towards the door and called for the guards. The door to his side of the cell opened. Esmerald, not needing to be told what to do, picked up his provided clothes and walked out of the cell as calmly as he could without thinking of the horrific scenes that were to unfold within the secluded cell the instant the door shut. The guards flanked him all the way to the next vacant cell they could locate.

But even fifty feet away as the only other soul on that floor, Esmerald could hear every disgusting command and sound that emanated from where he'd only been ten minutes prior. It was better than actually witnessing the act, of course but the gypsy boy still wished for something to stuff in his ears. There was nothing in the world that made what Frollo was doing right. There was a choice to be given to him before sinking to Frollo's disgusting desires, and they sat on the bench to his left.

Begrudgingly gulping what reserves he had left, Esmerald put the simple white garments on, knowing whatever choice he made within the next hour, he would never choose Frollo over his own death. Leon was proof and reason enough. Anything was better than choosing what he knew to be true. In the final throws of their passion, the gypsy boy laid down on the bench, and silently waited for the night to pass and his final day to begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man this was a long chapter filled with things I never thought I'd write... anyway, what do you think of Leon's story? I'd love some feedback! He's actually based off of a character in the book, because in the original story when Esmeralda is locked in her prison before her execution she's with someone who happens to be her mother. Of course, that was a more happy reunion and this is certainly more dark than one of the lightest moments of the novel. I figured it was a good thing to add to the story for development and because I love me some mysteries! Thank you for reading and I'll be out with the next chapter soon!


	13. Sanctuary

Dry, black clouds muffled the stars and moon in the early morning, their dark grip holding Paris hostage for the third straight day in a row. The people had hoped they would eventually dissipate and leave no permanent scars-- like the siege below had. Many who’d survived the torment and destruction in the wake of Frollo’s search to find the elusive gypsy whose name seemed to invoke either salvation or obliteration were forcibly crowded into the square before the eyes of Notre Dame to witness what was obviously a witch hunt. They had been dragged, threatened, and many imprisoned had they refused to show. Both Frollo and her guards had been quick to remedy anyone averting their eyes from her spectacle by herding those few who’d refused into large cages and parking them on the front lines of the bonfire. Everyone else was in a similar position as the guards held them in line with the threat of freshly sharpened blades. Grumbles of discontent at their situation could be heard throughout every place in the square from young and old alike. It was obvious that they were tiring of the fruitless witch hunt that their judge had started, despite the threat they faced from her ungodly wrath. It seemed many of them did not have much more to lose aside from the very clothes on their backs.

 

Their homes smouldered, dry and decaying. The crackling and distant glow of hellish orange flames was visible from every place within the city. Ash caked bare feet of poorer peasants left prints along the cobblestone roads with the blood of those fallen and the remains of a colorful time of year. It seemed so different from what it had been three days prior, when the sun shined and music wafted through the air. When there wasn’t the ever present fear of imminent death or the scent of smoke that stained the lives of every citizen in Paris. It seemed even the soul of the city had halted as the bells of Notre Dame had for the first time in nearly twenty years ceased their ringing.

 

Silence came from the bell towers for reasons unknown to those below, the deformed young girl who’d captivated them before a distant memory with the merciless destruction of their livelihoods. The loss of the historic chimes left the city feeling even more foreign, the familiar change of tone and moods gone in the wake of their own troubles.

 

Esmerald, from where he was bound at the waist and wrists to the trunk of a decapitated pole could see Notre Dame clearly from the flogging platform, the tall wooden and wrought iron doors shut and locked. The archdeacon who’d worked fondly to keep him from Frollo in the most passive way possible remained inside, powerless to stop the mad woman’s punishment outside the stone walls of the cathedral despite the fact that he was less than five yards away. Within the hours between his relocation and his trial he’d received no rest, unable to free himself from the torment he knew afflicted his cellmate. It was a chilling reminder of just what awaited him, if Frollo would in fact give him a chance. She had yet to approach him in any direct way and in his mind the gypsy boy knew had they both not been standing on a raised platform visible to every lifeform in Paris the situation would likely be much more different and involve much more rope. He cringed at the all too possible thought. What had brought her to such a sickening lifestyle; forcing boys into prostitution and a life as her slaves? There were no scenarios he wanted to explore. Each one of them felt so much worse than what he’d undoubtedly experience, and something in her manner told Esmerald Leon hadn’t been the first time. Celibacy was a word many easily flaunted, and Frollo of all people was probably no different. There was no telling how many people she’d wasted in her lustful desire for satisfaction and power.

 

Behind all the terror of what Frollo had caused, there was an itching feeling that sweated through his palms. The bells weren’t ringing, much to his and everyone’s surprise, and he hadn’t witnessed what had become of Quasimoda after being dragged by his arms from the Court of Miracles. He feared beneath it all for her safety as a friend. It bothered him to think of just how much trouble he had caused her regardless of his intentions. Leon had been all too correct and right in scolding him. For the longest time he had led her deeper into something she simply wasn’t meant to handle and he had been too stupid to consider how what he’d had her do had affected her or her life. She’d been held in a bell tower, gripped by fear of judgement her entire life. He’d ruined so much for her.

 

 _Another reason death is being merciful._ He deadpanned.    

 

The brush of golden kindling made him flinch and itch as the bundled amounts of straw and twigs were tossed by a guard to the foot of the post and piled up to his shins in height. The unsettling tickle of the golden strands made him quiver on his stake. A slow death was obviously waiting for him in the most ironic form. Apparently Frollo was the type to fight fire with fire. Any other time he would’ve chuckled at such an idea, but there was nothing in him that provided joy anymore. That had died like a damp candle wick as soon as she’d locked him in her box.

 

“The gypsy Esmerald has been found guilty of the crime of witchcraft,” She announced to the crowd, her face glowing orange in the light of a torch, her arms drawn and holding a scroll that itself held the most crucial part of her plan, inked in stenographers handwriting and jet black ink.

 

“The sentence for such crimes is death.” She continued as there was a sudden explosion of shouting and unruliness coming from the crowd, the guards easily keeping the disobedient people at bay.

 

He struggled to keep himself calm in the eerie glow of the fires, the grainy trunk of the sapling easily felt behind the thin cotton garments. His calloused hands twisted themselves in the binds of rope that kept him still, fingers prying worriedly at the frayed ends as a cold sweat began to march down his lower back and neck. There were people vouching for his release. They weren’t cries for death or justice like there had been in the Court of Miracles. They protested for his freedom-- a _gypsy’s_ freedom, no less. But that was no guarantee Frollo would listen to them. She never had before and probably could’ve cared less.

 

The sentence having been read, the judge turned to the executioner: a burly man with muscles to spare and a customary cap over his head. His cold eyes were reminiscent of her own eyes. Only the tiniest reflection reminded either of them a soul existed within somewhere. He passed her a glowing torch, the remnants of the black, oiled cloth suggesting it had been freshly lit. Orange flames curled and whispered in the deathly silent square. There were no bells, no voices, no footsteps and no breathing. It seemed as though all the world had grounded to a soft halt as her garishly adorned hand enclosed around the torch, lips pressed in a familiar disapproving line. All that Esmerald could hear was her quiet confident and the blood pounding through his skin with each dutiful footstep. Long arched shadows accentuated her drawn back wrinkles and hollow cheeks. For a chilling moment he saw the grin of a skeleton past her expiration, nearing to take him to his own. Eyes blinked away irritated tears as the scent of smoke came closer.

 

“The time has come, gypsy.” She seethed in the most orderly manner achievable. “You stand ever so precariously on the brink of the abyss between this world and the next.” He held back a scoff, wanting to cynically question the difference. She would toss this torch into his pyre and he’d burn away to the next life, whatever awaited him past this point. There was no reason to use Christian logic on a gypsy. Apparently, this wasn’t clear to the judge, and that didn’t surprise him in the slightest.

 

“And yet, even now as we stand here it is not too late for you. Salvation can come in many forms, boy, and many take the chance, regardless of the cost.” She came closer and Esmerald felt himself shrinking, his darkened eyes widening despite the fact that he knew what was coming. She leaned in closer to his chest, torch poised in a dangerous place. The sapling rocked as the gypsy pushed against it.

 

He struggled to get further from her as bony fingers traced his shoulder, the tongue of a serpent flicking before him. “I can be that salvation.” She said with a devious smile. “I can be your light into the eternal bliss of the Lord. I can save you from the flames of this sinking ship and the flames of hell. I am offering you one last chance.” Her eyes hardened and her nails clawed into his tawny skin, making him growl like a restrained animal.

 

The teen gritted his teeth, the foul temptress hanging over him like the shelter of a crow’s wing. Darkness radiated from every pore and nuance.  “Choose me,” She grinned with a flash of ivory teeth. “Or the fire.” Her grin faded and was replaced by the crackle of the torch as it was lifted to his chest.

 

He threw his weight against his restraints, the stake rocking and a crack sounding from somewhere within. She jerked back as a blob of thick spit landed on her cheek. Gasps sounded from the crowd as the judge cupped a hand to where he’d assaulted her dignity, her empty eyes turning to the gypsy with the utmost disgust and rage. A hand flew and connected with his cheek, nails grazing the tawny skin and leaving delicate imperfections in his skin. It was only visible in the light of the torch she wielded, unlike the rest of him.

 

His green eyes flashed with the rage of a beast whose cage had been rattled violently, muscles rippling beneath the binds of the rope and raven corkscrews hanging limply across his forehead. Pure, unadulterated loathing was trained solely on the judge. White teeth gritted together in fury for a moment before his jaw closed. His face looked even more frightening without the golden labret or earrings, as if they somehow hid how dangerous he truly was.

 

She had given him his choice, and he’d made the wrong one, unfortunately enough. But Frollo hardly felt the pang of inevitable loss that one would’ve expected her to feel. Instead, she felt a reflection of the gypsies rage mixed with the strongest sting of rejection never before experienced. She’d been so taken she’d assumed he would be hers. Nobody was more frightening than death. Except her. Both confidence and self esteem having been ruined in all of three seconds, she turned away from the prisoner who was only a threat to her now, and addressed the crowd once again-- albeit in a veiled manner.

 

“The gypsy Esmerald has refused to recant his crimes.” She shouted to the Parisians, her anger taking form in her tone. Her finger flew back and jabbed at him. “This evil witch has put the soul of every citizen in Paris in mortal peril!”

 

* * *

 

The bell towers were silent, it had become clear to everyone in Paris. Their ringing no longer pierced the early morning air. Loud and soft alike, the massive shells of copper remained still. There was no explanation for why the most recognizable feature of the entire city remained quiet for the first time since its completion, as most of them had put the tragedy of the Feast of Fools behind them in the face of a much larger and destructive threat. Had Quasimoda known everyone had forgotten her humiliation thanks to Frollo, she would’ve gladly accepted it any other day of the year. But this time, any humiliation would’ve been well worth it to end the suffering of her city at any cost. Until this time she’d never even picture the amount of evil beneath her adopted mother’s thin and easily shed skin. She never would’ve guessed how dark and unholy her heart truly was to her own. She never would’ve been smart enough to see it coming, and even without Frollo telling her so Quasimoda never thought herself capable of much. She simply wasn’t meant for it.

 

Every one of the friends she’d made along this horrific journey were to be dead within the next few moments. Leon, Phoebe, Esmerald; all of them snipped at the root and left to die because of her. It would’ve been comforting to take faith in knowing there was an afterlife, but if Frollo’s pipeline to God was as true as an arrow from Diana, they would be toiling in hell alongside herself, back where she belonged. It was to be finished, over, and for once the bell ringer simply couldn’t care what awaited her next-- even death didn’t seem as bad.

 

Shadows of orange fire gleamed down below, the judge’s speech echoing in her head. Thickly cut lengths of chain wound around her arms and waist, a heavy burden even she felt strained by. Her hunched back ached weakly and knees bent in a squatting position, unable to reach the floor and suspended to watch her gypsy burn alive like the wooden one that still remained smouldering in a corner someplace. The guards had been anything but careful in handling her in the bell towers without the instruction of her mistress. She felt too deep in her own sorrow to adjust herself off of a chain that pushed into her stomach, the slow rocking of her exhausted body making her shudder with discomfort. Her ginger locks, unkept as always, billowed down her sweating forehead and pooled around her shoulders. They blew gently in the smoke engorged drafts, small coughs rattling through her lungs.

 

Suddenly, she felt the chains moving, and tilted her head up. Rattling iron rung in her ears along with tired grunts. Harry, Victoria and Lorenzo were pulling at her restraints with all the strength they could muster. Unimpressed and knowing there was no point, Quasimoda groaned and lowered her head back where it was.

 

“Quasi!” Harry gave another tug. “Snap out of it!”

 

Victoria’s wings cracked under the strain. “Your friends are down there!” She followed her friends suit as Harry suddenly began to gnaw on the iron, sparks cascading down her jaw.

 

She could only look down at the bonfire, her adopted mother's proclamations carrying well from where she was chained between the two towers. The lengths of chains wrapped round nearly a dozen of the support columns for the bridge above. With the weight of the bridge and the stone that it was comprised of there was no earthly strength that could move her from where she was.

 

“You gotta break these chains _ragazza!_ ” Lorenzo growled shaking the links wildly.

 

“I can’t.” She answered, anger beginning to push through her system. “I’ve tried, there’s no way I can do it. And what difference would it make anyway?”

 

“What?” Victoria gasped, dropping her length. “But you can’t just let Frollo win!”

 

Quasimoda scowled at the stone floor. “She already has. There’s no point.”

 

“So what?” Harry dropped her length as well, hopping over to her friend. “You’re just giving up? Just like that?”

 

Lorenzo frowned disapprovingly. “These chains aren’t what’s holding you back, Quasimoda.” He stated sternly.

 

Her face reddened. “Just leave me alone.” She snapped coldly at the three gargoyles, not appreciating their support at such a bleak time when she knew there was nothing she could to stop Frollo. No amount of talk would convince her otherwise. All of them shrunk back at her surprising outburst, the gentle girl they’d known since her first birthday unwilling for the first time in a long time to accept their help as companions and as family. It shocked them to the core, and Harry was the first to hop away to her place on the railing.

 

“Alright Quasi.” She said, a visibly wounded look on her face. “Alright. We’ll leave you alone.”

 

Victoria fluttered alongside her silent companion, chips of rocks clattering to the surface like minute drops of hail. “After all, we’re only made of stone.” She continued before returning to her natural state as a piece of the architecture.

 

Lorenzo huffed and followed the girls over to the edge. “We just thought that maybe you were made of something stronger.” He finished with a disappointed frown before growing silent, granting the hunchbacks wish to be alone.

 

_Something stronger._

 

Those words struck deep in her chest like the sharpened blade of an axe. Something stronger than stone, stronger than chains, stronger than Frollo. Something that wasn’t strong just on the outside, but on the inside. Something strong enough to hold her ground past the pains the world threw her way. Something strong enough to power through the insults and jeers that coexisted with her hideous appearance. She never known the strength of love or passion, but she knew there was more to it than striving. It was surviving. Out of anyone on the entire planet she’d survived in darkness, on her fear of people and their evil ways. She’d been strong enough not to turn Esmerald away or grovel before her mistress upon her predicament with the injured captain. She’d been strong enough to pull through this entire things with tears, sweat, and misery, but all for the sake of those she’d come to see as friends.

 

She was strong enough for all the tribulations everyone sent her way. She’d only taken that long to realize it; to realize _herself._ There may have been nothing she could do before, but there was no way she would let Frollo take her dearest companion from her. Esmerald saw past the scars, warts and hunch. He’d never given her a reason to be afraid or hide. He’d treated her as she’d always wanted to be treated: as someone normal; no, someone _special_ beyond her physical handicap. He’d treated her as an actual person and not the misshapen demon everyone thought her as. Nothing could replace what he’d shown to her, and she’d be damned before she let something happen to someone who didn’t deserve it.

 

There were so many people who didn’t deserve the fate they were ultimately served. Quasimoda knew this better than anyone. But someone like Esmerald would not be dying if she could help it. He’d been sheltered in the cathedral before, away from people like Frollo; not exactly happy, as he’d mentioned, but safe.

 

Her head lifted from where it had been slumped, half of her face hidden in the bluish shadow of the cathedrals arch and ginger hair sheltering the other side that was framed by the light of the burning fires. A firm, determined scowl rested in a stoic fashion, eyes brimming with silent rage that refused to free itself from the confines of her rock hard pupils. Her legs twitched to life, shuffling towards the edge of the stone floor to where the stake stood far below. Her eyes narrowed with the focused anger at the woman below she’d once called mother, her voice ringing in her ears with the power and strength of the very bells she rang.

 

“His crimes are great, a threat to all within this fair city.” She waved an arm around the crowd to further illustrate her point, the thousands beneath her gaze silent once more. “For justice, for Paris, and for his own salvation,”

 

Quasimoda felt herself pulling on the chains, hands clasping around the closest links and squeezing her rage in bone crushing energy. She felt the links slowly warping to her enclosed, sweating hands. It wouldn’t free her. She had to try harder.

 

“It is my sacred duty as justice to send this unholy demon back where he belongs!” She finished and with a slowed movement of her hand the flames of the torch ignited the dry straw and wooden logs, glowing embers leaping forth to hungrily embrace the flammable material. Thick, white smoke began to billow up from the kindling as the stubble burned with the passionate fires of Hell.

 

The hunchback felt herself screaming a piercing echo that could’ve easily shattered any glass within a distance of many yards. It carried for a full five seconds, her strength and pull on the chains intensifying tenfold to the point where between her animalistic grunts and tugs, she heard the rumbling of bells, the scaffolding vibrating from her explosion of strength. It was within a few moments the first pebble of stone clattered to the floor. Stone fragments both decorative and structural hailed from above and bounced off the hunchback as little more than rain. Debris fell from the crumbling facade of the bridge. It was with a second, mighty motion upwards that she felt the first column binding her to the massive cathedral break, stone chunks sliding and scraping along the floor like grains of sand and sugar. Quasimoda growled under the enormous weight of the chains and stone as one by one they all fractured and fell, the vast majority remaining and holding the roof above her head. As the dust clouded around her shaking form, she wheezed with anger and destructive rage, the links to her bondage broken and decimated. The links fell from her chest and waist like the broken spine of a deceased snake. She could hear violent coughing between shouts of protest below.

 

Limping forward her left hand grabbed a nearby coil of rope left by the guards. With her right, she pulled length from the coil, a loop forming before being wound around the neck of a gargoyle aqueduct. Knowing there was no chance of it holding, she lept from the face of the church like the young birds who’d flown freely every spring. The weightlessness didn’t last long, however, and within seconds she was plummeting towards the square that held the majority of the population. Her shadow glided along the walls and stained glass windows, ginger hair trailing behind like a distant candles flame in the light of the world far below.

 

Suddenly the freefall ended, the rope out of length. Her calloused hands gripped tight to the braided lifeline and throwing her weight to the right, she swung a great distance through the air and her feet connected with the side of the South tower. Minute bits of stone chipped and fell a long way to the bone chilling cold waters of the Seine. She held her footing, the scent of burning hay and wood invading her nostrils and bringing tears to the edge of her eyes. Quasimoda knew she was running out of time.

 

From her view high above she could see the fire raging in the hay far below, the sounds of the Parisians and Esmerald’s rasping cough no longer audible over the crackling witch burning and the silent shock of the crowd bearing witness to it. The orange and burgundy flames swirled in hypnotizing patterns Frollo would’ve once expected her child to recognize as her eventual home. She cringed in disgust at her mistresses hideous grin, well visible from even as high up as she was.

 

Rage fueling her every move, she picked her legs up, forcing them forward in a manner she somehow recognized as running. Her thin shoes scraped against the stone walls of Notre Dame until finally she ran out of surface to sprint upon. Again, she was defying gravity, rope clutched in both calloused and beefy hands. She swung round the vast space of the square, gasps suddenly sounding from beneath her acrobatic feat from the citizens of Paris once again exposed to her. But she didn’t focus on them or their shouts of surprise. All she could focus on was the still form of Esmerald, his back pressed against the pole and his legs dangerously close to the fire that was eating away at the cotton cuffs of his pants. Smoke distorted the handsome figure, waves of pure heat obviously doing more damage than the actual fire.

 

For a brief moment she considered moving only a bit to her left to take out Frollo, but decided against it. Now wasn’t the time to risk the gypsy boys life simply because she wanted to give her adopted mother a piece of her mind. That would come after this entire fiasco was complete and done with. Her feet planted on the platform, the cheers of the people pushing her forward from behind.

 

Ignoring her adopted mother’s growl of anger, she stormed towards the stake that Esmerald was tied to, feet planting on the blackened remains of the hay bundles. Ashes burned into the soles of her feet and through the smoke her hands found the thickly knotted rope that bound the teenager to his death. Still silent, she tore the rope with one hand as he quickly toppled over to her waiting other arm. With minimal effort she shifted him over her massive shoulder as she had during their escape from Notre Dame.

 

From behind the soot stained fabric she could see the guards climbing to the platform to subdue her efforts. Unwilling to allow them close to Esmerald she stumbled back and with her other hand tore the burning stake from its stand. Throwing her weight into a slashing motion the burning trunk collided with the guards just as the were about to close in, knocking them to the ground with screams of burned agony. Shouts for reinforcements and the clattering of iron armor warned Quasimoda to not overstay her welcome.

 

The rope that she’d swung on dangled before her now free hand as she chucked the burning log onto the guards below. She was about to make a reach for it when the executioner appeared, massive hands brandished. With a disgruntled sigh, she charged at the massive man that was easily twice her size and knocked him away and to the cobblestone street, her mistress barely ducking the boulder that toppled only mere inches from herself. The final obstacle out of the way and subdued, her hand closed around it and in seconds she bounded and lept from the platform. Smoke and hot air stung her weary eyes, eyelids sore from squinting in the impossible conditions. But still her aim remained true, and her feet planted against the cathedral wall with a resounding and familiar noise. With one arm she held Esmerald tight to her shoulder and with the other she pulled herself up the steep incline of wall she’d normally done with both hands. Pain shot through her tiring arm but an equal rush of adrenaline kept her going strong.

 

Her calloused hand release the rope halfway up, her own movements more deft and trustworthy than that of a ropes. Fingers closed around every available nuance in the stone wall to pull her and Esmerald higher. She heard the unified click of many crossbow guards over the panicked and awed shouts of Parisians. The first bolt struck a gargoyle twenty feet to her right, the marksmen down below obviously struggling to focus in such hazy skies. A hail of black arrows surrounding the scaling hunchback, the bolts missing her and Esmerald in every possible way. Stained glass shattered, statues cracked and chipped, and Quasimoda herself had numerous close calls. Sweat trailed down her green tunic in the overwhelming heat, but she pushed herself on.

 

Finally, her gaze leveled with the lip of a ledge that was on the north tower. Her hand shot out to reach for it and closed around the thin stone ledge, pulling her and Esmerald to a safer area. The onslaught of the marksmen suddenly ceased and from below Quasimoda could tell they had done so out of their own desire. There was already visible damage to multiple columns and statues and it was obvious no bolt could hit the hunchback from as high up as she was. Her hateful gaze settled on Frollo, hazel eyes brimming with disgust as she leapt across the railing, the iconic rose window coming into focus. She stood upon to brink of the balcony and with a final motion of her hands, she shifted the unconscious gypsy across to her other arm.

 

Supported by both strong arms, she hoisted him into the air with one hand gripping his back and the other supporting his legs at the bent knee. Esmerald was held high above the city of Paris, his raven lengths blowing in the updraft of wind that whistled through the parapets and arches. Her own ginger locks spilling round her head, her glared down at the city that had nearly taken him from her and took a deep breath.

 

“ _Sanctuary!_ ” She bellowed at the top of her lungs from high in the cathedral, her command a familiar word to everyone within Paris. The crowd showed their enthusiasm with a chorus of shouting in agreement that the hero of the people be safe within the walls of Notre Dame once more.

 

“ _Sanctuary!_ ” She repeated as the hundreds of torches in the square raised in salute to her valiant efforts to save the gypsy boy who’d changed her life in every possible way. There were calls of agreement even from the cages of gypsies far below, the mixed tongue having the same meaning to everyone.

 

Finally, she eyed her adopted mother, her pale features aglow in the ghastly light of the pyre. Quasimoda wanted the message to be clear to Frollo that Esmerald would never be hurt by her again under the watch of the church. She wanted to show her what she was capable of regardless of what she’d told her. She wanted to make her remember this moment as what justice truly was.

 

“ _Sanctuary!_ ” She shouted for the third and final time, her blazing eyes focused solely on the woman who’d tried to destroy an innocent and wonderful human being. Had she not been holding the gypsy boy with both arms, she would’ve pointed at Frollo just to give her message the final push it needed. But alas, it didn’t need to be said or acknowledged any further. Esmerald would have sanctuary in the cathedral once again.

 

All she could do as the final cries of glory rang through Paris was hope Frollo's piety would keep her from doing anything else more wretched, that she would simply give up after her show of defiance and allow the incident to pass. She hoped Esmerald would survive this brutal encounter. Lowering him from the precarious position, she stumbled along the stone balcony to one of the multiple rooms built into the cathedral towers, kicking the door open and letting the dust fly off the surface of the unused furniture.

 

For the many years she’d been imprisoned in Notre Dame cathedral, the times of her infancy were trying for a woman like Frollo who was far too busy after her initial adoption to be traveling to and from the cathedral every day to watch over her helpless and hideous daughter. Feeding and changing was a chore Frollo certainly didn’t prefer to do herself, but found there simply was no other option that didn’t involve somebody else becoming aware of Quasimoda’s existence. Unable to breastfeed, she relied upon the archdeacons goat for a steady supply. To ensure, however, that nothing would happen to her daughter over the times when she couldn’t be there, Frollo set up for herself a temporary residence in the bell tower from the time when the hunchback needing weaning to the time of learning to limp about and speak. After that time, Frollo considered her work as a governess unnecessary and left the room to be abandoned. Quasimoda had found it within the space of a few months, and decided to simply leave it as it was for the most part.

 

Almost completely sealed away from the elements save for cobwebs and the occasional scurrying rat, the furniture included a soft mattress and pallet devoid of covers that rested on a wooden table, two hand carved chairs, and an ancient spinning wheel with the tiniest prick of blood on the spindle from which Quasimoda had no inkling as to how it could’ve gotten there. A long abandoned hearth had been installed and the instruments for its control still sat beside it, grey ash coating the iron black tips. A bucket of water also sat directly beside the bed, a section of cheesecloth preventing any contamination as of late and although nobody occupied the room, she still saw it fit to refill the water daily as if the presence of it reminded her of better times. Wasting no time, she laid Esmerald gently on the bed against the wall, relinquishing her hands and looking at the sections of cloth which were burned and singed. Carefully peeling back the fabric, she saw angry red skin and a small cluster of blisters on his right shin and ankle. They were hardly gruesome, but the thought of him injured still left a rock rolling in her stomach.

 

The injury itself however didn’t look as serious, and with the sounds of commotion coming from outside, doing actual healing would need to wait. For the moment she took the ladle of water and splashed it over the injury. Esmerald remained unresponsive and she gulped. Tearing a length of fabric from the cuff of his pants where the burn was concentrated, she soaked it in the bucket and wrapped it round his injuries.

 

“Don’t worry.” She said more to her herself than Esmerald. “You’ll be safe here, I promise. We’ll finish the burn later.” With a second splash of water and a final look, she tore from the room as her friends watched her inside. She was needed elsewhere.

 

Peering over the railing her face drained in horror. She saw guards running up the steps, swarming in gilded silver clusters towards the doors and entrances. The angry protests of Parisians overshadowed the shouting of their leaders orders. Frollo stood on the platform, finger pointed to the massive stone structure that now held her prisoner. It was obvious what the order had been.

 

War had been declared on Notre Dame, herself.


	14. Our Fight Will Be Won

Frollo glared up at the cathedral in which her article of vengeance had been kidnapped to. The warm stone facade seemed almost sentient in the glow of the gypsy’s abandoned and dying pyre, the heat and smoke warping the beautiful crowning achievement of Paris’s religious reputation as a fair city of God. The statues gazed upon her menacingly as they had that one winter's night she’d opened a Pandora’s box of torment and agony in the form of a child she’d attempted to love despite her endless amount of shortcomings. Their eyes blazed with a familiar glow that caused a welling fear deep within her immortal soul-- all that could possibly overshadow it was the anger she held for her adopted daughter for ruining her chances at salvation and her chance to end not only her unholy desire for a street urchin, but to end her own lustful torments. Leon had been an easy target with much to lose like countless others she’d pined for. He had been spineless and weak even as a free man to her. While she’d forced him to accept a life of fulfilling her rather heavy desires, he had accepted it all the same, and therefore was no longer a sin in her eyes. Esmerald, on the other hand, had no qualms about turning her down despite the punishment he would receive for rejecting her. Frollo had, in an essence, never accepted the word no from anyone, and knew come hell or high water, she would be willing to end him to end her own involvement. So long as she fulfilled her lust for young men or her lust for vengeance, life would remain blissful for herself regardless of anyone who suffered or got in her way.

 

And as much as she attempted to tolerate and love Quasimoda, in the end, there was no difference between the unfortunate soul, and those she’d sentenced to die in brutal floggings and hangings. They had all not only defied the law, but defied her. That was a crime that she could never forgive, no matter who they were to her or what they pretended to be.         

 

A blind, sly grin from behind in his cage created a cold sweat on her lower back. She refused to turn around and acknowledge her victims triumph. It would be only fitting brother and sister died within the same hour.

 

Whirling towards her new captain, a slender nobody with an unfortunately long and garish mustache, she threw a jeweled index finger in the direction of her conquest. “Captain,” She snapped. “Seize the cathedral.”

 

A visible look of awe surfaced on the man’s face. He closed her jaw from where it had hung. “Ma’am, are you certain-”

 

“Do as I say!” She cut him off with a ferocious burst of concentrated anger. “Take this structure with your entire squadron. Leave the fat ones behind.” She quipped, gaze flickering back towards the Parisians. “If those fools want their martyr freed then they shall watch his body bleed on the streets. I don’t care what methods you use, so long as the incubus is brought to me.”

 

The captains doubt immediately keeled over in the face of such twisted aggression. Frollo took no time to notice his obedience. She took her leave from the platform as an unseasonably warm breeze blew through the main square and the hungry orange flames flared to life once more and began to eat away at the structure of the pyre. Curls of thick, black smoke wafted towards the blood red sky. There were shouts of protest and discontent coming from the unraveling compliance of the Parisians.

 

Suddenly, their cries were overshadowed by a rush of panicked shouts from the men marching in the direction of the cathedral. Frollo barely saw the massive shadow in the darkened red sky. The freshly cut wooden beam, the product of a once mighty oak, sailed down towards the judge as she visibly jumped back, unwilling to be done in by a measly tree. Her carriage, however, did not have similarly quick reflexes. Her imposing vehicle was rendered scrap metal in seconds as her midnight black horse bucked, free from its reins for the second time in twenty four hours. The judge could only watch in awe, her mouth puckering as her horse disappeared out of sight and her guards scattered like mindless mayflies.

 

Her glare leveled with the bell tower. It was no mystery at this point who’d sent that beam. Quasimoda was smarter than she originally thought. Had she not been using her mind to sabotage herself she knew that this was the sort of behavior she would’ve discouraged. Having a powerful mind was a strength Frollo had always assumed Quasimoda lacked. But a mere heavyweight wasn’t about to stop her pursuit to end the gypsy and the hunchback, even if many of her idiot guards now sang a different tune. It struck Frollo that she would need a slightly less cowardly bunch of self-proclaimed heroes to replace the ones guilty of insubordination.

 

“Come back here, you cowards!” She yelled at the men who fled the possibility of instant death from above by a deformed hunchback. A few either brave or stupid souls turned back to the judge as she tore her triangular hat from her head and cast it aside. She picked up a polished sword from one of her former soldiers. Her eyes focused on the iron latticed double doors.

 

“You men,” She gestured to the tiny army of ten who looked upon her with exasperation and silent terror. She waved the sword at the massive piece of wood that had destroyed her mode of transport. “Pick up that beam. Break down the door!”

 

* * *

 

To say Phoebe disliked the man who replaced her as captain was a grave understatement. He’d been a useless pawn with no prior experience in leading anything more than two ditzy drunk coworkers home from a night at the tavern pounding away mug after mug of ale. He was a pathetic man with little understanding of justice or good that wasn’t influenced by his superior. She couldn’t have thought less of him if she tried. After all, he was the very same man who’d made an attempt on her life and harassed a poor teenager for kicks. He’d been a complete and total waste of her time. To watch him wield such a decorated position that had once been hers was shameful to what she stood for.

 

Mostly, she watched his many screw ups and silently made note of each and every misstep and mistake. It was a good reference for those who were already new enough to recruitment as it was. It was also a veiled way for Phoebe to pity her own eventual demise, knowing she’d been miles ahead of the new prized puppet of the cruel judge.

 

While normally she would’ve avoided worsening her current condition by staying put, it was rather obvious that should Quasimoda or Esmerald stand a chance against an armada, they would need her help. Her opportunity arose the moment Frollo commanded that the cathedral's doors needed to be neutralized. And while her plan called upon the lowest instincts she could muster, simply knocking out a guard in a crowded area would only be the straw that broke the camel’s back. As the pudgy, stupid guard began to move, the blonde whistled low enough for only the weak minded man to hear.

 

He whirled around with a withering scowl. It quickly melted away as Phoebe unbuttoned the top of her jacobite shirt, implying what the man was to witness. Thick gauntlets closed around the bars as the tin plated buffoon began panting softly like a feral wolf in the dead of mating season. Strolling to the edge of the cage, the former captain smiled through her discomfort at her captors thirsty intentions.

 

“What a handsome man you are,” She began to flirt while struggling to keep the sarcasm from her tone. For a split second the man's eyes flickered to up from her slightly exposed chest. She shivered internally and reminded herself it was too late to back off now. “You know if you were to let me out of here, I know a place we could go for some,” She swallowed her tongue. “ _Fun._ ”

 

Being careful to keep herself from grabbing distance, Phoebe carefully slid a hand out of the cage as the man stared wide-eyed, ogling her parts similar to the manner a beggar would longingly stare at the scraps of a chicken bone. Her fingers slid along the stubbly cheek of the rotund soldier. Her other hand closed around the ring of keys at his leather scabbard. He seemed to be salivating now as his imagination seemed to run wild at the faintest possibility of receiving action with a female.

 

Seizing her opportunity before the missing link could make a move, she encircled her hand around the blubber of his neck and slammed his face into the bars of her cage with all the strength she could muster. An audible _snap_ came from his face and she silently cursed hoping no one had heard it. Held tight in her fist, the ring of keys popped off of the scabbard and the unconscious guard slumped to the cobblestone below. Through complete luck it took her no time at all to locate the correct one and in mere moments she was free as the marksmen and remaining soldiers began to smash into the cathedral's door with the beam.

 

Relieving the man of his pike, she buttoned her shirt back up and swore silently to never do that again. She then paused as her plan reached a sudden pothole. Of the citizens in the square, as many as half were not fluent in French, and there was absolutely no guarantee that they would listen to her after Frollo had captured them due in part to herself. While it was likely the amount that were not imprisoned could do the job, numbers were a distinct advantage Phoebe could never forget on field or in Paris.   

 

Spying her solution ten feet to her right she slipped along the empty cage until she reached the one she had in mind. A large man reclined in the corner, his arms crossed as he gazed towards the cathedral. Even from where she stood she could tell his teeth were gritted in silent rage. Unwilling to waste too much time as the guards delivered their fifth mammoth swing to the cathedral door, she began to try keys on the locking mechanism.

 

Leon seemed to notice her presence the instant she’d stepped onto his cage. “What do you think you’re doing?” His tone was somewhere between disgust and surprise.

 

Phoebe groaned. “If you want me to stop and leave you here then by all means I’d be glad to go free your girlfriend over there.” She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder to where Celestine shook wildly at her confines like a vicious January wind. This seemed to silence the sculptor for a moment, as if contemplating the meaning of her words before shaking his head.

 

“She’d be the better option.” He simply replied.

 

“Are you saying you _want_ me to leave you here?” The captain was quickly growing weary of the imprisoned man's interruptions. She jammed another key into the lock and cursed as it failed.

 

“Don’t mistake my words.” He nearly growled. “If you think I’m going to let Frollo lay a finger on Quasimoda then you can go and let me break out of here myself.”

 

“Really?” She snipped and shook the lock angrily. “And just _how_ ,” The blonde tried another key and nearly threw the ring far from her. “Are you planning to do that? You gypsies always have a plan, but breaking through iron bars is a stupid and rather impossible one.”

 

Leon seemed bothered by the comment. “You have a rather stupid assumption about us, captain. And you expect to win them over with what, a smile?”

 

She rolled her eyes and tried another key. “ _Very_ funny. I’m not winning over these people, Leon. You are.”

 

“Since when do you think they’ll listen to me?” He raised an eyebrow incredulously. “Just because I have ties with the queen doesn’t mean they’ll give me an audience.”

 

Phoebe tried the final key on the ring. “Well then you’ll just have to turn on that special charm of yours.” She grunted as the lock clicked and she swung the door open. “Just translate what I say.” She finished before climbing atop the cage and giving a hand to the blind man as he too followed her footsteps.

 

Looking around the restless sea of people that crowded the massive square, she wielded her spear with precision as the gypsy took to nearly mirroring her stance. She cleared her throat.

 

“Citizens of Paris,” She addressed them with as loud a voice as she could produce in the smoky atmosphere. “We have watched for days as Frollo burned our homes and livelihoods, ransacked our city, and reduced it to the outskirts of hell!” She took a breath as Leon repeated her exact words in the tongue of the Roma. “Now,” She pointed the iron tip of the spear towards the towering religious structure. “She has declared war on Notre Dame herself! Will we allow it?” She questioned hoisting the weapon high into the air as if to accentuate her point.

 

A unified shout of ‘no’ rang throughout the city from people both Parisian and gypsy. Almost instantly the line of fat guards were toppled like twigs and trampled beneath the lynch mob of angry citizens finally fed up with judge Frollo’s antics. Decades of fear and oppression melted away at an alarmingly quick rate. Every man, woman, and child was storming through the square in the direction to their holy place of worship. The blonde felt a swelling sense of pride beneath the anger for her former leader and turned to thank Leon. There was no sign he was even there, and she rolled her eyes with a grin before hopping from the cage, spear in hand.  

 

As she charged through the square with the others the beautiful echo of snapping padlocks rang in her ears along with a carrying battle cry. The once pungent scent of smoke lifted higher almost like an act of God. She saw farmers and business owners beating down the marksmen with ordinary tools she never would’ve assumed could hold any significance in battle. Rakes, shovels, even blunt pieces of wood were used unconventionally against the forged steel of swords and dirks. She even saw women putting frying pans and even lengths of fabric while younger children scurried and caught the brawling adults off guard. Every single Parisian was out performing the city’s best and bravest by sheer number and intelligence. While in any other case it would’ve been a sign of weakness, it brought joy to the blonde war hero to see her side winning.

 

* * *

 

High above the battle on the ground, Quasimoda and the gargoyles were scrambling about the towers and subduing the many guards who’d resorted to climbing the cathedral’s walls with ladders and ropes. The hunched young woman limped as quickly as she could around the vast area, large hands lifting blocks of carving stone and lining them up like grey geese in a row along the towers railing. Hazel eyes trained on a ladder to the south side, and with a huff she shoved the first of her bricks off the edge. The object, like the beam, plummeted to earth and with a resounding crack and many screams, struck its target with more or less perfect accuracy.

 

While her methods were rudimentary at best, they seemed to be doing the trick to subdue the goons with ladders. Rather quickly she’d exhausted her supply of bricks as the soldiers exhausted their methods.

 

Or so it seemed. The sound of iron on stone caught her attention as a strange, four pronged hook wedged itself within the gap of the railing, a rope clearly attached. She instantly grabbed the implement and gave a sharp yank. The weight on the rope slackened and over the brawling in the square she could hear the terrified screams of men falling from the rope into the icy waters of the Seine.

 

“That’s our girl!” Harry shouted between a mouthful of rubble before going back to firing the small pebbles at the attacking forces far below. Quasimoda cracked a reassuring smile.

 

“Quasi!” Victoria suddenly broke her silence from where she’d been working. “Can you give me a hand?”

 

She huffed under the weight of another stone brick as another ladder was propped against the cathedral. A tired grunt surfaced as she heaved the massive heavyweight over the edge and a pleasant sound of splintering came from below. “Can’t Lorenzo help you?” She cast a quick glance at the delicate gargoyle.

 

“He seems to be a bit busy at the moment.” Victoria gave the strange object she was working on a shove only for it to scoot a few centimeters and her arms to crack and flake. Quasimoda looked around, but didn’t see him. Victoria rolled her eyes and pointed towards the north tower rail. The elderly gargoyle stood at the very edge, waving his arms around wildly.

 

“Fly, my _bella’s!_ ” He commanded as the hundreds of roosting pigeons and birds began to leave the tower and dive towards the street. “Fly! _Fly!_ ” He cackled madly like a wicked sorceress.  

 

Knowing that finally being rid of his tormentors was an occasion to be celebrating, Quasimoda began to move the massive object the gargoyle was building. It was comprised mostly of beams, some rope, and possessed two standing candelabras to improve its limited mobility. It also had a massive rock on the end of a long bar, almost like a catapult.

 

“Just keep pushing!” Victoria grunted. “Towards the bridge!” And the hunchback complied.

 

After only a few moments the edge of the strange contraption was teetering on the brink of the stone floors edge. Quasimoda took a moment to rest, sudden fatigue catching up to her from her exhaustive efforts to keep the cathedral safe. Victoria hopped about the weapon, peering between the many crevices and cracks as if checking it a final time.

 

“So,” She took a deep breath. “What does it do?” The ginger panted, wiping her glistening forehead.

 

“You’ll find out. One more push should do it!” Victoria began laughing in a manner most similar to Lorenzo’s, however it was much more disturbing considering her usually cautious and overly apologetic nature. With a sigh, the hunchback threw her weight against the wheeled machine and it tumbled from the forty foot height, its sudden descent making the majority of the guards not holding the beam panic and scatter. The object seemed to land upside down directly behind where many of the guards had grouped and released a sigh of relief. Quasimoda gave her friend a look of confusion.

 

“What good did that do?” She raised an eyebrow.

 

Victoria’s laughter faded to a grin. “And in three, two, one…”

 

The spring loaded catapult shuddered slightly and the hunched young woman threw her gaze back towards it. The heavy rock which was grounded to the cobblestone acted as a counterweight as the bottom flat base sprung forward with mechanized perfection and crushed the guards as easily as ten empty tin cans.

 

“Works for me.” Quasimoda admitted and gave her companion a pat on the back, proud at the gargoyles ingenuity towards disposing of the guards.

 

* * *

 

 

Down below Phoebe fought the soldiers that recognized her as the one who’d started the uprising against them and targeted her seemingly out of some desire for revenge the former captain hadn’t realized she’d earned. Armed with only a spear in a square full of highly trained men with hatchets and swords, she knew the odds weren’t exactly in her favour. The soldiers and guards seemed to take her in small clusters like silver plated wasps intent on striking her as a bigger force. For that amount of strategy, she had to give them some credit. Originally she wouldn’t have thought them capable of such brain, or brawn for that matter.

 

Using her spear as a brace to make the men keep their distance, she put her method to the test. One man who was unarmed charged at her, throwing his weight onto her thin wooden pole. With a shove, she loosened his grip and gave a snarl before kneeing him in the groin, the one place he wasn't heavily protected. Her knee still stung from the impact against a paper thin sheet of iron, but it was well worth it to watch him double over, incapacitated.

 

Whirling around at the sound of footfalls, three more unarmed goons charged at her. Thrusting the spear up and bracing herself, she managed the push the three of them to the ground as the bloodthirsty townspeople saw to finishing the job and dragged them back into the bigger brawl.

 

More footsteps were heard, and Phoebe braced her spear only to be met with the tiny fist of a girl, the black gloved fist knocking her square in the eye. She barely had time to ready herself to use the sharper end of the spear before the owner of the fist began to speak.

 

“Where is he?” She seemed rather impatient and not at all apologetic for hurting someone on her side.

 

“Who, Leon?” Phoebe guessed, slightly startled.

 

“Yes, Leon!” Celestine snapped. “He disappeared after getting me out of that cage! We need to find him.”

 

The former captain’s eyes widened. “Behind you!” She warned as the raven haired girl spun and delivered a beautifully timed kick to the soldiers jaw, and multiple white teeth could be seen scattering to the street as the man toppled like a sack of flour. Phoebe herself as greeted with another guard and gave a hard shove only for another one to come from behind. For a moment the blonde faltered, a fatal mistake until the gypsy came from behind her and drove a knife into his shoulder, subduing him in an instant.

 

Both of them stared in slight astonishment at each other, realizing that they’d just simultaneously saved their rivals lives. There was a moment where both of them nodded and the gypsy queen moved to the captain's back, covering her. Very quickly the men began to seemingly respawn, this time weapons in hand. Three more men were ended and the tanner of the two gained a long handled axe. Phoebe’s flimsy spear was quickly compromised by a tubbier guard, and Celestine passed her the newly acquired weapon.

 

“Why are you so attached to Leon?” The blonde managed to question in the brief moment of rest they had. “He’s tried to kill you and he seems capable to handling things I wouldn’t expect him to.”

 

The gypsy girl shook her head. “You don’t know him like I do.” She delivered a swipe of her dirk to an incoming guard and kicked his shin so he tumbled backwards. “He’s capable of so many things, and that’s his biggest problem. Him nearly killing me was bullheaded, blondie. If someone isn’t there to stop him he becomes reckless!”

 

Phoebe broke her stance from behind her fighting companion and blocked the swing of another sword with the handle of her hatchet, using her weight to hold him back and giving a final shove only for a baker to whack him unconscious with a bread peel.

 

“Well,” She grunted as her suture began to burn. “I have as much insight as you do. You gypsies have a habit of appearing and disappearing out of nowhere, I’ve noticed.”

 

“Where do you think we get our desire to go unnoticed, _captain?_ ” Celestine countered sarcastically. “Your predecessors often forced us to be stealthy.”

 

“Yeah? Well I’m not one of them anymore.” She grunted under the weight of a larger soldier who’d delivered his strike with impressive strength. Celestine whirled around and knifed him in the abdomen and the man slumped to the cobblestones.

 

She wiped sweat from her brow. “I guess not.”

 

Phoebe took the man’s sword, and offered it to the gypsy queen, who shook her head. She then removed her dirk from his stomach, flicking the blood from it before tossing it to her former enemy, forcing her to drop the hatchet. Suddenly sensing another attack, she spun and threw the bloody blade, the weapon sinking into its targets forearm and falling him. Phoebe let out a low whistle of impressment before taking the gypsy’s weapon and stepping over the guard.

 

She turned back around, and Celestine and the hatchet were nowhere to be found. With a thoughtful grin, Phoebe charged onward, only to realize the wooden handle of the dirk was dyed a brilliant shade of purple. _Fitting for a queen,_ The blonde thought.

 

Only a moment passed before she saw the captain of the guard storming towards her, sword drawn with intent to do harm. Sliding the dirk into the heel of her boot, she held the sleek blade she’d been trained with all her life and chuckled wantonly. This was a fight she looked forward to having.

 

The man she despised charged with a loud and annoying battle cry. Inside, the former captain counted every step, performing her fighting with this one almost for show, as if she were so ready to beat her replacement no effort was really necessary. He swung with her polished blade, obviously having stood back and watched his companions do all the work for him to remain a decorated object of Frollo’s design. She blocked it with gritted teeth.

 

“I see you have my sword,” She remarked and shoved him off of her.

 

“Easily won from a scared little girl.” The captain sneered, tightening his gauntlet. Phoebe frowned at the childish insult. Normally, she’d consider herself above such childish behavior, but for once, she allowed her younger self to take the reigns and win, even if it wasn’t as clean or as fair.

 

“Easily handled for a drunken waste!” She swung and he blocked.

 

The captain held her in a stalemate. “Do you really want to risk taunting me? Maybe when you lose I’ll let you keep that mouth.” He growled.

 

“Of course not,” She lightly chuckled, weakening her grip for a moment and recalling how she’d stopped Esmerald from killing her in the church. “After all,” Phoebe delivered a swift kick to both his legs, knocking him to the ground as she pressed recovered her sword and pressed the other one to the man’s face. “You really need to shave.”

 

Before he could stop her, his massive handlebar mustache was scattered and shortened. With a vile curse he attempted to recover by getting out of her way. He barely got to his knees before  Djali collided with his rear end and sent him flying a full five feet towards Hippolyte. Phoebe hadn’t even noticed she was there. A second guard, the fat one who’d pulled a dagger on her in the street, appeared and in a second she had him in a headlock. She cast a dubious glance over to her horse where the captain had face planted directly beneath her horses rear.

 

“Lyta, sit.” She commanded as she took to denting the man's skull with the blunt end of her sword.

 

The white horse complied obediently, and the guards head was crushed under her backside. He struggled and cursed from beneath the beast and Phoebe grinned at her enemies well deserved  misfortune.    

 

* * *

 

“Put your backs into it!” Frollo shouted as the men delivered another rough swing to the massive locked doors. She could see the darkness of the stone facade within, the distant shadows of candelabras stretching along the tiles. Through the iron trellis decor there were no signs of life from inside.

 

She was slowly but surely gaining ground on the cathedral despite the citizens of her city declaring war upon her pursuit for a just cause. Their opposition to her was barely heard over the sound of the beam smashing into the wooden doors. She swung her sword with vigor at the doors almost like a flag semaphore would on a mighty ship. The judge hardly doubted the strength within her men and that they would eventually break the door down, regardless of the Parisians that were making quick work of her guards. There would be justice come morning, and her dear daughter and both toys would pay the price for their sins.

 

The judge casually moved herself to within the arch, wanting to be the first one through and one step closer to the marksman acting as bulldozers. Finally the crack in the wood split wide open into a gaping maw, the black latticework bent ungracefully out of shape. They were finally making progress after many potential minutes wasted. The judge made a silent note to strangle the archdeacon or whomever had decided to bolt the door and make their efforts all the more difficult.

 

However, before they could finish the job of breaking down the door with one final, guided swing, there was a familiar sound that was extremely out of place. For the many guards and Frollo herself, water within the city was becoming a rarer sight with each home burnt to the ground. It was also early to mid January, the absolute least hospitable time for flowing or running water. The sound of the above aqueducts churning to life caught her mens attention, however Frollo didn’t notice the sound however suspicious is could’ve been.

 

“What are you all doing?” She snapped, unwilling to yield to even the slightest setback to her orders… not when they were so close.

 

One of the men closest audibly gulped. “Ma’am, listen,” He seemed uneasy. Frollo took a second to processes the sound.

 

“It’s simply cold water, you idiots.” She concluded with an irritated and light groan to her mens childish fears. One more swing would do it. If they weren’t going to be cooperative Frollo had plenty of ways of ensuring they would be. However, something within her forced the elderly judge to look up at the concluded water-- clear with stray crystals shimmering in the light of the fires and warmed by smoke.   

 

But her mouth opened wide as the gargoyle aqueducts released something different. She couldn’t have been more wrong about her assumption. She only realized it when a dull glow could be seen raining from high above. Many of her men began to scream and the beam clattered to the stone with an audible _thud_. Molten iron poured down from the massive cathedral, a shade so bright and orange terror flashed beneath her grey eyes at the thought of Esmerald in her stone hearth.

 

She couldn’t move. She couldn’t scold her men for fleeing. She had absolutely no inkling as to how Quasimoda had even managed to procure such a weapon from where she was. It grew closer, and even hidden beneath the edge of the thick, inlaid arch, Frollo still pressed into the door trapped between the House of God, and the Rivers of Hell. There was something almost entrancing about the molten glow of the lava as it flowed like the golden fluids of a massive sunset. Her head swiveled to both sides and she realized in horror the fire was pouring from all aqueducts, creating a blazing, scalding curtain that bubbled and frothed as it ate through the beam as easily as a running stream carved weary spring ice.

 

The judge instinctively threw an elbow up to protect her face from any stray droplets of iron, and drove the sword into a crack of the door. In moments it became clear that the curtain was flaring onto the steps, giving her a close, uncomfortable view of eternal damnation. Turning back to the massive door, she swung her sword into the hole, splinters of wood scattering onto the immaculate tile. Taking care and balance, she climbed through the entrance and dusted herself off. The blinding orange light framed her silhouette in a long, imposing shadow.

 

She didn’t see a single soul ahead of her. The glow of the hellish waterfall only extended a few feet past herself. Frollo could see the feet of candelabras, the cracks in the tile, and through the firelight that shone in the stained glass window, she could see the spiral steps up to the bell tower.

 

But as she took another step, there was a sudden presence in the room that the elderly judge became aware of. It certainly wasn’t the archdeacon. She recognised the prominent scent of ashes and fear.

 

“Come on, dear. I know you’re here somewhere.” She skulked, moving to the wall as her shadow was quickly cut at the root. Sword bared, Frollo waited for a response. When she didn’t receive one, she glared at the darkness beyond the reaches of the molten irons abilities. “You should know better than to hide from me, Leon. We both know I’m leaving this room alive.”

 

A cracked voice on the edge of a chuckle emanated from the darkness. “We both know I’m not letting that happen.”

 

“Cowardly, as always.” Frollo taunted. “You always have been so. Even in bed, you quiver beneath the sheets. You obviously have some misguided notion that you can beat me so,” She spread her arms as if giving herself up. “Come on. Let us have a genuine swordfight. I’ll give you a chance at saving your deformed little sister.”

 

A low growl came from the darkness, and he took a step closer. She could see the shadow of his receded, unshaven cheeks. A length of pink fabric was tied around his head. Blind, his eyes always carried more emotion. She could also see the gleam of a dagger poised in his right hand,  

 

“I’m glad you said that.” He responded, a hint of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

 

“Why?” Frollo questioned, nose wrinkled and unimpressed.

 

“Because it proves you’re breakable.” He sneered. “I would know a thing or two about that, Claudia.” Pride came before the fall-- it was a saying Frollo hardly recognized personally outside of her religious reasonings.

 

“We’ll certainly see, Leon.” The judge countered. “I’m nothing if not a fair woman. I’ll be sure to tell dear Quasimoda of your failure. After all, it’s not like a blind old bastard like you has much else to lose.”

 

The sculptor took another step, now out of the darkness. “That’s exactly why I have to do this.”

 

Not wasting another second, he sprinted on the tile with a near feral snarl, and lept at the judge like a fox on the prowl. Frollo barely ducked out of range from his dagger, but not far enough to avoid being knocked to the side by his attack. She spun with her sword and expected it to slice into his back, however the blind gypsy managed to turn over and block it with his own blade. A look of utter shock surfaced on the judge’s face. The sound she released made him laugh.

 

“What do you take me for?” He huffed. “I might be blind, but I know how to fight.”

 

With a grunt he elbowed her sword wielding arm, throwing her off of him and allowing himself to recover. Overcome with anger at the knowledge that Leon could fight, she allowed a moment of pause to pass over her. An idea floated into her head. In a quick move the elderly judge dropped the sword, and the gypsy flinched at the sound. A devious smirk overcame her as she rounded into the darkness. Leon began to charge at the weapon, assuming the judge was down and unarmed. His dagger only stabbed into air, the pointed end scraping the tile.

 

He realized his mistake only a second too late, and the sculptor only managed to throw up his elbow in defense before the cold sting of metal mingled with the warm flesh of his right arm. Leon fell back, and the iron blade slashed across his stomach. He could see the hazy shadow of the judge and heard the wet splatter of blood. He dropped the dagger and cringed, curling up as tight as he could to avoid the Judge Frollo's baselard again. Failure instantly worked through his veins as he struggled to move from the pain.

 

The judge refrained from giving him any words of arrogance, unwilling to not only give him any final thought, but also because she had business to attend to, business that no one would keep her from anymore. That was, until, she heard a gasp from behind her.

 

“Leon!” The elderly archdeacon recognized the bleeding figure. “What in the name-” His eyes drifted to the spiral stairs that Frollo climbed. His gaze hardened with scrutiny and for a moment it seemed he debated whether or not to leave the gypsy or to stop Frollo.

 

He stood and walked around the injured sculptor as the judge remained still for the moment, her patience running dry with her victory still savoured and fresh. Her baselard was tucked in a pocket, still bloody, and her cold, puckered gaze fixated on the holy man who’d witnessed her second heinous crime against a member of the same family.

 

“Frollo,” He began, anger slowly rising in his voice. “Have you gone absolutely mad?” Silence greeted his question and the man seemed to grow more infuriated at her lack of response or seemingly her lack of regret.

 

“You burn the city to the ground, assault the House of God, and run an innocent through within these walls a _second time_ ,” He paused as Leon released a moan of pain. “I will not tolerate this any longer! You will leave this cathedral, so help me,” He stormed towards the silent woman. “You will not harm anyone else in your pursuit for justice!”

 

Frollo quickly flared to life as a raging flame. Her hand extended and wrapped around the collar of his shirt, her patience for the archdeacon completely gone.

 

“Silence, you old fool.” She hissed and gave him a push down the first step, the larger, elderly man toppling back, subdued, yet uninjured. He could only watch as she further ascended the stairs towards the tower and towards her own madness. “The hunchback and I have unfinished business to attend to. And this time, you will not interfere any longer. See to it you bury that thing with his mother!” She snarled and indicated the sculptors shrunken form.

  
The archdeacon flinched as the door to the tower was slammed shut. Immediately he turned back to the fallen gypsy, and ran to his quarters, determined to save Leon by any means he could. Frollo may have sunken into madness, but there was nothing he could do to prevent fate from taking its ultimate course. All he could pray in his hurried steps was that Quasimoda knew what would be coming.


	15. And He Shall Smite The Wicked

She marveled in awe at the massive swaths of guards as they ran, like the cowards they were, away from the massive cathedral. The molten iron that had poured like a glimmering waterfall from the aqueducts of the cathedral was slowly beginning to run dry and go dark as it splattered onto the icy cold cobblestones below. She hoped that something of that magnitude would be able to dissuade the guards and soldiers from taking any more evasive actions to ensnare her beloved sanctuary. Of course, had they chosen to do so, she didn't have another pot of molten iron and she was already beginning to become exhausted from the strenuous tasks set before her for Esmerald's security and well being. Had she not had that kind of motivation, there was no telling how late she'd be sleeping past the morning sun, recovering her strength and having all the time in the world to do so.

But her job wasn't completed just yet. She'd been diligently scanning the square as the familiar heads from her adopted mother's guard disappeared down the roads one by one. The townspeople had dropped their miscellaneous weapons and joined the men in their haste, ice bourne steam and iron forged smoke billowing into the blood red dawn's simmering, cloudy brew. For a full minute, the city was silent and the world ground to a halt. Even the crackling of the fires seemed to quiet themselves in marvel at the surrounding destruction and the monsters who'd created them for it.

For that minute, Quasimoda cleared her throat, almost sure she'd somehow gone deaf after the years of the cacophony of bells. But she proved herself wrong, and a small weary grin spread across her pale features. It grew wider and wider as the silence continued. It was like a voice from above had commanded her deeds do the trick. She cast a quick nod at the cloud swollen sky, and suddenly remembered where her priorities lied.

She limped all the way from the bridge to her mistresses old quarters, flinging the door open with as much strength as she could muster. Esmerald had to have woken up by now… enough time had to have passed. It had felt like an eternity since she'd laid him down gently on the pallet and healed his singed ankle.

"We've done it Esmerald!" Quasimoda cheered, thrusting a fist into the air with victory. "We've beaten those goons back! Come and see!"

But as she beckoned towards the hellish outside, the room shared it's calm silence. Confidence left her frail body on wings and instantly the smile melted into concern as she stumbled towards the unconscious gypsy.

His skin glistened with stale perspiration, lips parted softly and emerald eyes closed. Even in the less than optimal lighting Quasimoda could tell he was a sickly pale shade- one noticeably lighter than that of his normal, toasted tawny brown. The scarlet glow of her shadow caught the shine in his damp raven hair, the black coils drying from an almost positively feverish sweat. She wasn't a trained physician or doctor by any means. She had never had access to one and was told by her mistress to distrust the ideas the men preached as they often had to do with lunatic theories such as little microscopic creatures that spread diseases called 'bacteria' by the quacks.

But she didn't need anything better than her judgement to know Esmerald was not feeling better, even in her somewhat adequate conditions and treatment. She blinked at his quiet, still form, trying to convince herself she saw his chest rising and falling with breath.

"Come on Esmerald," She chided with a soft, whispery voice. "You're safe now. T-they can't find you here!" She felt her tone wavering as he remained motionless as a corpse.

Her large hand brushed his cheek, cleansing the sweat until it reached his matted raven hair. It was coarse as straw and stained with smoke, the scent invading her nostrils. "No," She shook her head and reached over to the ladle, almost knocking the covered bucket to the floor. With her other hand, she tilted his head upwards, not willing to risk him choking.

A spoonful of fresh water quivered in her grasp as she maneuvered it towards his parted lips. Quasimoda then simply tilted the ladle into his mouth. The water collected in dribbles before spilling down his chiseled jaw and collecting on the pallet. That much proved he wasn't conscious… but it was hardly a hopeful sign. She heard the door shut behind her, most likely the gargoyles had decided to give her privacy.

But the bell ringer only wanted to imagine it had been the wind. Her being left alone meant he was dead. And he wasn't dead. He had to be alive, he just _had_ to. There was no way he could leave her after all she'd risked to save his skin. What hell did God want her to face in a world where he was really gone?

She shook her head again and dropped the ladle, flinching at the sound and grabbing his hand. She squeezed it tenderly, moving up to the wrist. Quasimoda pinched at the front with her index and middle fingers, pressing gently into the tawny flesh. The ginger stared emptily at the gypsy's face, pleading for his eyes to open and for him to breath and laugh with her. She blinked with lucid eyes at his wrist and waited, holding her own air for complete silence.

She waited, and waited. But a pulse never came.

The bell ringer held back a gasp, and her breath left her lungs in a ragged sob. Her head craned and tears ran down her cheeks. Still cradling his head, Quasimoda dropped his limp arm and wrapped him in her own, crying over his dead body. She heaved an ugly sob and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force herself to believe he wasn't really gone- that she would meet his green eyes again within a tense moment of silence. But when she opened her tear filled eyes, only a pale, tawny corpse greeted her vision. Even dead, he was still breathtakingly beautiful.

But she held nothing but respect for the gypsy boy. She wouldn't lower herself to touching him in any way. He was too perfect a human to ever be gazed upon by the likes of her- by _anyone_. Even his still form deserved to be left undisturbed, and undisturbed it would remain. But even with that vow in mind, it still took all her earthly strength to relinquish her hands from where they cradled him, and to lay him down gently on the pallet.

Instead, Quasimoda repositioned herself at his midsection, and buried her head in her massive hands to mourn her dear friend for as long as the sun still rose and set. Finally after what seemed like an eternity, she forced herself to open her eyes, and take a deep breath. Slowly, she calmed herself down by staring into the ragged white of his shirt.

But as she stared, the red shadows of the sky invaded the darkness of her mistresses quarters. The door creaked open with a snails crawl and a small squeak of unoiled hinges. Quiet, dutiful footsteps rung in her ears, and a bony, cold hand rested itself on her shoulder. She recognized that hand the instant it touched her and she struggled between the desire to pull away or be comforted by Frollo.

She sniffled and narrowed her eyes at the pallet she mourned upon. "You killed him." She hissed, voice cracking and hazel eyes flickering at the dead gypsy. Her large hands shifted towards Esmeralds, remembering what he'd told her that night she'd helped him flee the cathedral. She cradled his calloused palms, remembering how he'd named her lines. A long lifeline. A divot of creativity. A line of the heart. And there were no monster lines.

But the monster behind her seemed to share her sadness. It was a difficult ruse to buy, but Quasimoda struggled to analyze she voice, her tone. She struggled to comprehend the truth in what she said in response. It almost seemed possible.

Almost. "I'm sorry, my dear daughter." She answered solemnly. "But it was my duty… horrible as it was in a cruel, vicious world. I had no other choice."

She wanted to glare, but didn't have the strength to do anything but heave again. "There's always a choice." She answered in a low voice.

The judge sighed. "I'm afraid that is not always the case." She shook her head slowly. "Monsieur Esmerald is in a better place, now. I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me for doing what was for the best."

Quasimoda wasn't buying it. Not a single word of it was genuine. Frollo obviously didn't know when to discriminate between truth and fork tongued lies. She shook her head lamely, whimpering into the gypsy boy's form. She would never forgive her mother for this.

Frollo sighed. "My dear Quasimoda," The cruel judge frowned with saddened, grey eyes. "I know it hurts. I know nothing can erase him from you. But now, I'm afraid it is time to end your suffering."

The hunchback stilled and opened her eyes, looking up from Esmerald to the wall, unsure what her mistress could mean with such wording. A long, dark shadow was cast upon the stones, sleeves of her robe not hiding her right hand as it rose into the air. A baselard was pointed downwards, directly towards her back.

She turned and gasped at the sight of her adopted mother holding a sharpened and blood stained weapon with the intention of killing her. The woman who'd so emptily nurtured her through twenty one years had crossed some invisible line into madness. Her hazel eyes widened as Frollo thrust the dagger forward despite Quasimoda seeing her do so. It then occurred to the bell ringer she didn't care if Quasimoda saw her do the deed, so long as the deformed one was dead before she was. She didn't even feel her arm moving forward to stop the baselard until the beefy fist closed around Frollo's bony arm, holding it back before it could harm either of them.

Suddenly, she was staring into two, black dots in a sea of white, seperated only by a pointed nose. They grey had lost all color in the pursuit of murder. It was an inhumane sight as her mistress growled and pushed, slowly overpowering her massive daughter who was becoming petrified with fear. It made so much sense and yet she still couldn't comprehend any of Frollo's actions. What had pushed her to do this? What had stopped her all those years before? What had stopped her last night, only a few hours prior to this escalating battle?

But with an unneeded shiver, Quasimoda didn't want the answer to any of these questions. The last thing she needed now was to hesitate. With Esmerald dead, she own life needed saving, and she was more than capable to doing so. A low growl boiled in her throat and strength coursed through her biceps. Her other hand closed around Frollo's other arm and with a grunt, she shoved her off.

The judge flew back to the other end of the room, the baselard clattering to the wooden floor as she collided with the ancient spinning wheel, the wooden instrument rendered a pile of splinters from its age and use. The judge, groaned and rolled from the slanted wheel, knocking over the carefully organized fireplace tools as they were left to scatter along the ground.

She regained her composure in a matter of seconds as the bell ringer picked up the bloodstained baselard, facing Frollo with quivering rage. Her eyes widened at the possibility of her adopted daughter doing her in. She had to perform damage control as best as she could.

"Now," She struggled to keep the terror from her voice. "Listen to me, Quasimoda-" The judge held up a hand weakly as if it would protect her.

"No!" The ginger snapped. "You listen! I've spent my entire life hiding away in this cathedral because you told me how the world was a dark, cruel place!" She glared between her adopted mother and the dagger. "But now I see that the only thing dark and cruel about it is people like you!" She jabbed a salami sized finger at the elderly woman and threw the baselard out the door.

Frollo watched as it skidded along the stones before sailing down into the square, lost in the blazing fires. She could only stare, scolded as the words sunk in, unsure what Qausimoda would do to her next but knowing her daughter physical strength outnumbered her one hundred to one. She had awoken the repressed anger that had brewed within her daughter for over two decades, and squeezed her eyes shut in anticipation for what pain awaited her next.

It came in the form of a voice. A painfully familiar voice that should've been snuffed out. "Quasimoda?" Esmerald rose and looked at the hunchback, reaching a tawny hand out to her.

The anger dwelling within the hunched young woman instantly melted away as she whirled around to witness the impossible. Frollo could tell her eyes had widened with brimming joy. It was disgusting.

"Esmerald?" She gasped and blinked, realization washing over her like tides of a stormy sea. "Esmerald!" She cried and bounded over to the gypsy, grabbing his hand as it reached for her. She pulled him to his feet only for him to fall back and wince in pain.

"Can't walk," He hissed, lifting his burned ankle which seemed to have swollen. Quasimoda didn't let a beat pass before picking him up as she had to plead his case of sanctuary, and he wrapped an arm limply around her neck to prevent him from falling.

Frollo's bony fingers clasped around the hilt of her sword, recovered from her brawl with the dead sculptor. "He lives!" She screeched and removed the silvery blade from its scabbard.

" _No!_ " Quasimoda screamed and ran from the room with the gypsy still in her arms, not willing to let Frollo take him from her ever again. She bounded out and around the edge of the tower balcony, disappearing from sight.

The judge was fast to recover her balance from where she'd fallen, the only real bruise she'd faced to her pride. She widened her legs, remembering her sword training from her darker years. Her head swiveled in opposite directions, eyes narrowed for any possible signs of the fleeing hunchback. Taking small steps, she reminded herself to look up and a bony hand brushed the intricately carved stone facade, as if touching the stone gave her the ability to sense movement within its domain. The corner of the tower became closer, and she rounded it with anticipation, only to see the grins or gargoyles perched on the edge of hell's great cliffs.

She turned her head back towards the railing of the cathedral, the wafts of glowing smoke rising ever so slowly in the silence of the square. Suddenly, that silence was broken as a loud battle cry rose from the world outside, and the clanging of steel and iron forged blades began once more, albeit dulled as if the smoke clogged up the sights and sounds of the city. It seemed almost divinely intentional, as if God was willing a veil over her deeds to hide the true audacity to them. Had Frollo been in any less of a dangerous position, she would've smiled. But that would come later- after her sins were forgiven and righted.

A force was pulling her forward, and she complied. A hot breeze brushed the wrinkles of her pinched face as she reared her gaze downward, the heads of the gargoyle aqueducts barely eclipsing her line of sight. Sword held firmly in her grasp, judge Frollo peered down at the molten square, the molten iron forming a glowing hot river that separated the rest of Paris from the cathedral through the veil of clouds, the vague shadows of brawling citizens could be made out only barely.

Suddenly, she bent her head down and saw what she had suspected. Quasimoda held the neck of the gargoyle by one beefy hand, the other holding tight to the gypsy who seemed much more alert than before. Both of them were staring, wide eyed at the judge as a devious grin spread across her paper white face. Fear poured from both pairs of eyes and the hunchbacks mouth popped open like a spring.

"Leaving so soon, are we?" She questioned and threw both arms back, the silver blade of the sword catching the light of the fire's glow. Quasimoda saw the movement and switched hands, moving further up the edge of the gargoyle and squeaked as she heard a crack in the stone support, the combined weight of them both too much for the architecture to bear.

The blade swung down at them both and missed, striking the stone rail and the edge of the gargoyles neck, causing pebbles to rain down towards the massive length between the cathedral and the square. The smoke suddenly seemed to clear and the blue of the climaxing night sky suddenly became more prevalent. Frollo hardly seemed ready to quit after missing once, and lifted the sword again, much more accurately aimed. The gargoyle began to shifted beneath her grasp.

"Hang on!" She shouted as the gypsy boy threw an arm around her upper back, gripping tight into the green of her tunic as the maniacal judge swung again just as the hunchback swung to the cornerstone of the towers edge. She missed again and growled in anger, the wingless gargoyle finally breaking free and plummeting towards the square below.

Qausimoda whimpered and Esmerald gaped at the rather large cut on her arm, superficial as it was. The pain and shock almost made her lose her grip, but the terror of what was possible numbed the bleeding cut. The gypsy boy holding tight, she jumped to the net aqueduct just in time to avoid the homicidal judges sword again.

She swung again as the blade was wedged into the neck of her ledge, and remained lodged long enough for her to gain footing as her arms were beginning to tire and the pain shot up her large arm. Esmerald was left to dangle like a cat with both arms slung around her neck until she scooped him up and balanced them both precariously on the final aqueduct before reaching the north towers rail. The last gargoyle chipped and plummeted into the fires below, freeing her mistresses sword.

The bell ringer allowed her injured arm a brief moment's rest before making a final leap to the edge of the north tower rail, only for Frollo's sword to strike the thin neck and making a decent divot halfway through the thin stone support as she landed, fingertips barely keeping a firm grasp. She widened her legs and the gypsy took the opportunity to scramble to the safety of the cathedral, whatever dogging injuries he'd had seemingly healing in the face of the biggest adrenaline rush he'd ever felt in his life. Quasimoda got a better hold of the stone statue perched on the edge of the rail as Esmerald pulled himself over the thick rail, catching his breath.

The judge saw the moment of weakness in the both of them and charged, sword still sharp and deadly despite the amount of misses and blunt impacts. It became obvious she was aiming more at Esmerald than her adopted daughter, and Quasimoda pushed herself up to the rail so she was standing behind the shield of the massive gargoyle, meanwhile shoving the gypsy boy out of the blades path and onto the safety of the balcony. He planted with a grunt and somersaulted, smacking into the wall of the north tower and squinting with weary eyes at the judge as she faced the hunchback.

The ginger climbed onto the arched stone statue, arms flapping lamely in the wind like flags. Frollo glared at her and wrinkled her nose; hard, black pupils staring down the abomination she'd contented herself to raising for over twenty years. A familiar pattern emerged in the back of her mind and the scowl deepened.

"I should've expected no less from you, you pathetic oaf." She growled, sword poised as Quasimoda could only stare in complete and abject terror. "I find it poetic you risked your life to save that gypsy witch," Her gaze flickered to Esmerald before levelling back on the deformed young woman. "It must be hereditary, after your own mother died trying to save you."

For a moment she almost wondered if the crackling of fires below or the whipping of the winds had brewed up such a lie, but Frollo's retort rang in her ears. Shock slammed into her like a battering ram, and her hand quickly clasped around the horn of the gargoyle to avoid toppling from the rails edge. Her hazel eyes widened and she could see no reflection in the judge's own pupils.

"What?" Was all she could respond with, the word coming out quiet as a whisper.

She offered no explanation save for a wicked smile. "And now, I'm going to do what I should've done twenty one years ago." The judges hand slid to her cape. "You've outlived your usefulness, sad as it is. It would be only fitting if he could watch your death."

"He?" She stuttered, completely lost.

"Enough questions, my dear." Frollo snapped. "The time has come to return you to where you belong!" With that she flung her long black cape over the hunchbacks head. The sudden movement caught the ginger off guard and she screamed under the cover of darkness. There was a sudden jerk and her footing slipped from the back of the gargoyle statue. Her heart leapt into her throat as his vision was restored and her arms flew out, desperate for anything to keep her from falling into the fiery pits.

That anything turned out to be the length of black satin that had sent her falling. Even though she always had trouble gripping finer fabrics, her fist closed tight for dear life around the material. Her injured arm held tight to the edge of the rail, and suddenly the shifting of her weight tugged the judge and with a faltering yelp the elderly woman was sent careening over the edge as well.

Quasimoda felt completely numb as she stared emptily down at the woman who'd taken almost everything from her, the woman who'd kept her hidden in the dark and held her captive with lies and deceit. None of it was true. None of it had ever been true. Her true mother had died trying to save her, and there was once someone out there in the world who'd loved her for her deformities… as a family, as a mother. The realization combined with her exhaustion and injured arm was quickly taking its toll on her. Frollo's eyes widened in fear as the hunchbacks fist became stiff. She glanced back at the sudden brush of hands on her own. Esmerald was now up and about, trying to help her keep her failing grip.

His strength was nowhere near enough to keep her suspended, however strong he may have been. Her eyes were shutting. She felt her feet slipping from the edge of the rail. She felt the satin cape swinging weakly back and forth, and suddenly the weight of the judge beneath her went limp. But Quasimoda hardly noticed. She was far too shocked and exhausted to do anything, even when it was required of her in this crucial moment.

"Hold on," Esmerald grunted as his palms sweated, the breeze whipping through his raven hair as the ginger began to twist slowly like the tail of a falling kite. "Just hold on Quasi," He pleaded as he gave his first full tug. The limp creature below him barely moved and the gypsy had to dig his feet into the decor of the railing to avoid being pulled over the edge with her as her feet finally slipped from the balcony, leaving her completely helpless in his loosening grasp.

He didn't even see the shadow of the judge as she suddenly appeared to his right. He struggled under the weight of his friend as he craned his head to view the final threat the judge would ever give him before finally succeeding. His jaw opened and his eyes grew wide with confusion and terror as he finally saw the judge for what she truly was.

Her black robes billowed in all directions with the howling wind and crackling fires. She stood on the final gargoyle aqueduct; one of the only ones still intact from her sword rampage. Her arms were thrown back with the gleam of the silver blade seeming to burn in the orange and red glow of the sky. Her features dripped in the sweat, almost like they were melting away to show a true from beneath. Her smile was demonic, wicked; every adjective to describe hell and the devil himself was wrapped within her sickening grin. The judges grey hair seemed not to scatter in the wind, but flaired, as if struck by a lightning bolt. And her eyes… oh those eyes…

The icy cold grey had been reduced to the runny, mid-January slush that disappeared like the real stuff had the day of the Feast of Fools. The empty, unconcerned gleam within that cloudy color had boiled and festered to two glowing coals, simmering and red as the fires of hell. The whites of her eyes were nonexistent, and only an evil, malicious force occupied the ruins. It was almost as if the old Frollo was simply a disguise tailored by Lilith to fool onlookers from witnessing the devil himself hiding in the most innocuous of forms. Satan stared him down and fire seemed to pour from his gaze; and even as someone who didn't believe in Satan, it was rather compelling evidence.

It could've also entirely been his imagination, but Esmerald would swear for years he saw the flicker of a forked tongue- that of a serpent's, as Frollo opened her mouth in a victorious cackle. It made his blood run cold in the face of such overwhelming heat.

What she said next captured his breath in its wickedness. His fingers clenched tighter around Quasimoda, and his mouth remained open in shock below wide, emerald eyes. " _And he shall smite the wicked and plunge them into the fiery pit!_ "

His swallowed. Even as an atheist he'd known that specific quote from years of it being hurled at him and his kind in the streets wherever they roamed. But all of those times were nothing compared to the vision of hell before him now. Not one of those times had it ever seemed so true or possible.

For a moment, he squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the sword to slice into his flesh- for his arms to recoil in blood and laceration as he was forced to watch his dearest friend fall to her death. But a familiar sound rung in his ears… the crumbling of stone. The aqueduct Frollo was standing on was the same one she'd nearly decapitated before subduing the bell ringer. The same one she'd sliced halfway through. Now it seemed her poor aim was catching up with her.

Suddenly, her balance failed and the sword was relinquished in her attempt to hold onto the quivering stone support she'd hastily trusted with her life. The steel blade careened down towards the fires and Frollo was forced to grab hold of the long necked statue with both hands and legs. She stared into the intricately carved eyes of the gargoyle, eyes meeting its empty gaze. But without warning, the stone roared to life and became searing hot to the touch. She felt her flesh cooking, burning at it held for dear life to the aqueduct. The creatures eyes mirrored her own and a brilliant orange glow emanated with a growl and a wicked grin. The gargoyle was a clear reflection of what she'd become in her final act of desperation for salvation. The realization of such a fact made her scream louder than she ever had in eighty years of life.

The monster she held then cracked free from the facade of the cathedral, and before she could scramble to anything else, she was on a one way ride down to the fiery pit. The sailing stone beast picked up speed as Frollo was forced to look down upon the hell she had created, screaming all the way down to past the square, past the earth- down to the world of misery, toil, and suffering, a world which she would truly pay for the lives she destroyed. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Judge Claudia Frollo was dead… or at least, returned to where she truly belonged.


	16. Sing The Bells Of Notre Dame

There was a feeling of cool mist around him beneath the minimal shelter of an aging tree that had seen its last harvest of apricots many winters prior. It was almost numbing cold for mid October and the world in the midst of a cool, steady rain and rolling fog couldn’t have seen more comatose and lifeless. He shifted on his boots again, pulling the mud-soaked sole up planting it someplace else to avoid sticking and drying like a paste. Leon had long ago given up reserves of keeping himself warm and figured the best he could do was wait under in the same place his parents had instructed him to do so until they returned with passage into Paris. 

 

This was a painfully familiar piece of his past-- that much he’d figured out in the first few seconds of scanning the dreary, soaked grasslands that surrounded him, the distant skyline of Paris silhouetted with lacey clouds of gray. He’d remembered seeing his parents off and eating the hardtack they’d left for him to eat in case they didn’t return in time for dinner. He’d remembered hiding the dagger his father had given him in case of trouble in the hilt of his oversized boot. 

 

The one difference that had nearly sent him into a panic was that his arms were empty, and his infant sister was nowhere in sight. At first, the sculptor didn’t understand or know what to make of the vision. He’d recently blacked out after failing to stop Frollo and getting mortally wounded. Beneath the thick coat of cold, unforgiving shame he realized what was obvious:

 

_ I’m dying. _

 

But it made sense. He’d been bleeding out all over the floor of Notre Dame with only what sounded like the archdeacon noticing his demise. Back in his memories, he remembered being freezing, damp, annoyed; but now? Now he didn’t feel anything at all. He couldn’t feel the rain crawl down his flesh. He couldn’t feel the mist as it channeled in and out of him. There was no warmth or cold in what he experienced now, and it was rather unsettling to have something back after twenty years without it.

 

He could see the muddy green of the grass, the texture in the sludge that threatened to bind his feet to the earth. He could see Paris beyond what had been a cold winter as it was nestled in the cold embrace of the thick clouds that reached for the ground. The remaining damp golden leaves of the apricot tree shivered over him, raindrops pattering into the mud below like grains of salt in a massive boiling pot to dissolve into the mix. 

 

But even in his memories he’d held what he’d risked everything for tighter than ever. In the rain he’d sheltered her, given her everything he could give to keep her safe and warm. He’d sang in Romanian his mother's lullaby with a soft voice, cradling and rocking her slowly to the sound of the falling rain. It had been just them, all alone, with him protecting her. 

 

After all that had happened to Leon it was what his life had become. It felt empty without anyone to keep him occupied but himself. It was a cruel, cold world he simply wasn’t used to weathering. 

 

He tried not to imagine what had transpired after he’d passed out and away. He tried to hide the premonition or what could’ve become reality in a world he was no longer part of-- one where he couldn’t change the outcome no matter what he gave up. Welling up beneath his rigid frown, tears pricked at his eyelids.

 

For the first time since he’d been defiled by Frollo, he let himself cry in the lifeless world of his memories. His knees sunk to the ground as he collided with the worn trunk to keep his balance. The bark left no pain or cuts on his calloused hands and almost wished it had. Feeling meant he didn’t have to accept she was dead. It meant he was still alive. It meant he could do something.

 

He felt a hand on his back. The sculptor heaved a breath, trying in vain to compose his breathing. The hand was gloved in leather, about the size of his own. It squeezed as if to remind him he wasn’t alone. He knew who it was and the thought of facing them again after everything almost made him cry harder. 

 

His mother rounded from behind and dropped to her knees to meet her son after nearly two decades, small hands reaching for him and one caressing his stubbled cheek. In less than a minute he was wrapped tight in their arms as they let him release the stress of his past life. 

 

After he finally composed himself he peeked over both their shoulders, eyes lost in the infinite world around him. “Where is she?”

 

They both knew who he was talking about, and smiled softly. Leon blinked with realization. “Daniela’s not here.” His mother shook her head. The sculptor tensed. “Then where is she?”

 

“She’s back there.” His father answered. “Back where she needs to be. Where  _ you _ need to be.”

 

“Where I need to be,” He repeated, melancholy in his tone. “Why?”

 

“Because we can’t come back, Leon.” He answered. “And you’ve done more than you ever needed to for her to be safe. You’ve done everything just right. But neither of your stories are done. Your happy ending isn’t here with us-- not yet. You still have a life to live, one where Frollo can’t hurt you.”

 

His blood ran cold. “But she can’t hurt me here. How do you know things won’t continue as they have?”

 

“Leon, we can’t protect you from anything you fear.” His father looked him deeply in eyes that by all accounts shouldn’t have been able to see. “Whatever is down there, you have to face it. Not many people can stand back up after being fallen so severely. Both you and Daniela need to finish what Frollo started. Only then can our story be concluded and your story truly begin.”

 

He bit his lip, calloused hands feeling the scars around his arms among many other places where the marks of her crimes had yet to fade-- that never truly would fade. “What if I don’t want to go back?”

 

His father’s gaze fell and his grip loosened a bit. A small chuckle left the back of his throat. “I suppose that’s up to you.”

 

A stretch of silence fell over the small, incomplete family in the shade of the apricot tree, even the rain having ceased as though to give them time to consider what came next. The sculptor’s hand drifted to the back of his head, the blunt indentations of tissue where he’d lost his sight there without effect. A world of light awaited him if he chose to accept what sat before him. Happiness, bliss, paradise, all he’d ever wanted for himself.

 

But not all he wanted for her. 

 

It was a dreary reminder of who and what awaited him back in life. Time and time again he’d made unspeakable sacrifices for the hunchback to continue living all for the situation to eventually deteriorate like it always did. He’d given his freedom, his virginity, his  _ sight, _ for her safety and to make sure she survived. Not once had he ever been allowed the option of ending himself when there was still someone else who could get hurt. Not once could he afford such mercy.

 

But not once had he ever thought the nightmare could end. In the dark nights locked away from the outside world and in the gilded cage of his mistress's apartment he’d never once been optimistic enough to assume that her harassment would eventually die. He’d never dared dream of freedom in her presence. Frollo had an almost inhumane trick of being able to read his blind desires and wishes, even without his conformation and much to his disgust.

 

There was no telling what awaited him back in Paris. But that didn’t mean he was going to leave Quasimoda without telling the whole truth; not when she deserved to know better. And so he wiped the tears from his eyelids, kissed his parents goodbye, and closed himself back to where he was needed.

 

***

 

Clopine slithered her way through the splintered door into Notre Dame, Phoebe following closely behind. The fight had begun to quiet down with the last of the soldiers and guards having been beaten into submission and surrender thanks to the thousands of Parisians who’d broken free from underneath the weight of oppression set upon them since Frollo first appeared. It seemed even the divine heaven above was grateful for the bloodshed to end as the sun was barely peeking its way up on the dredges of icy countryside. 

 

Both women had quickly bumped into each other again outside and agreed to see to their respective causes. Clopine had been extremely nervous for what laid on the other side of the doors and while she attempted to hide her angst, even the Venetian carnival mask she often sported wouldn’t have been enough to cover the fear dwelling behind her eyes. Phoebe, on the other hand, was much better at keeping her emotions blank and grey. Years of military strife showed her emotions were weakness in the face of a battle or combat. They could easily be turned and used against you. 

 

That didn’t mean she wasn’t afraid of what she would find in the cathedral. But with what she’d seen, a blind man certainly didn’t have the best prospects against someone like Frollo, no matter how ancient she was. Esmerald had to have been out cold, and Quasimoda seemed more than capable of keeping him safe from Frollo. What had already happened was really anyone’s guess at this point. 

 

Despite her presumptions, she refrained from saying anything to the gypsy queen. She seemed rather unhinged from the sculptor, that much was clear. She was, after all, a queen with the duty of enforcing and protecting her kind. Even one stray subject getting hurt had to be a rather personal blow especially since it seemed clear she blamed herself for Leon’s behavior. Whether or not this was simply royal guilt or something more personal Phoebe couldn’t decide between and didn’t think it mattered. She was never good with emotions even when they weren’t her own. 

 

Needless to say, her companions shattering scream still jarred her and almost made her stab herself unintentionally with a stray piece of scrap wrought iron. The gypsy had abandoned her fast as she raced across the glistening tile floor. Her own brown eyes followed Celestine until they landed on the darkened form of a body and a man crouched over him.

 

“What did he do?!” She shouted in complete horror as she practically crumbled to his side, tearing her gloves from her hands as the archdeacon nearly toppled back in surprise, dropping the tools he was working with. 

Phoebe joined the pair, looking at the injured man in all his sickly glory. The sculptor certainly didn’t seem to be doing very well. He looked pale as a sheet despite the rich tawny tint to his skin and was almost motionless. His blank, empty eyes stared towards the heavens and offered absolutely no clue to his state of injury or how close he was to death. Her eyes settled on the ugly wound in his abdominal region that left a decent slice across his naval. It didn’t look superficial.

 

“Frollo ran him through.” The archdeacon recovered and took a cloth from a wicker basket, dabbing it in a familiar smelling scent.

 

Her terror fell to a grave frown where her jaw opened slightly. “Is he going to make it?”

 

“I don’t know.” He frowned at the wound. “He still has a pulse but it’s a weak one at that. I’m not an experienced doctor, but given the circumstances I’m doing all I can.”

 

“How long ago did this happen?” Phoebe concentrated on the wound as it rose and fell slowly with the sculptors breaths. The archdeacon gave an estimate of five minutes. “Than this is a good sign. Most men who die from wounds like this don’t live past one minute.”

 

“He’s always been hardy.” The archdeacon mumbled as he continued to clean the blood from the laceration. 

 

“He’s always been an idiot!” Celestine groaned, smacking a palm to her forehead. “I’ve warned him so many times about his temper, but  _ no, _ ” She rolled her eyes. “He just  _ had _ to go on and do something like this. Leon, you ass, when you wake up I swear to God I’m gonna--”

 

“Watch it your highness,” Phoebe snarled. “We’re in a church.”

 

“Besides,” He moaned. “We know whatever it is it can’t be worse than your sad attempts at threatening me.”

 

Before anyone could stop him the gypsy queen had thrown her arms around his neck and held him close, cupping his stubbled face in her hands and laughing before giving him a massive kiss on the lips which he quickly pulled away from.

 

“Is now really the best time for that?” He soured before cringing from the movement of his stomach. Celestine give him a snarky grin as of to say ‘don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it.’

 

“My thoughts exactly.” The archdeacon frowned disapprovingly at the pair and crossing his arms.

 

“It looks like you two have some talking to do.” Phoebe rolled her eyes in a similar manner to that of the holy man.

 

“And that can wait.” Leon shot back as he pushed his elbows behind himself to prop his back up. “Where’s Frollo and where’s Quasimoda?” There was a moment of uncomfortable silence as nobody had a real answer to his question. Leon scowled at nothing in particular. “What are you waiting for then? I’ve got work to do.” With that, he began to try and get up. Surprisingly, nobody stopped him and he only managed to curl up an inch further before the pain returned and he smacked back onto the floor.

 

“You probably don’t need me to tell you you’re not going anywhere.” The former captain glared softly at him and Leon blanched at the comment despite already being paler than usual. 

“That’s what they told me when I was blind,” He started to argue.

 

“And look where that cockiness has gotten you!” Celestine snapped at him. “You never know when to stop even when it means you’re going to get hurt. I swear you’re little stunt nearly killed me more than it killed you!”

 

“And you're surprised?” He countered with deadpanning sarcasm that made the gypsy turn red.

 

“Listen wise guy--” She almost started but Phoebe cut her off before she could berate the sculptor any further. 

 

“Look, while I’d love to watch you two lovebirds fight I think we’ve got more important matters at hand.” She stared at the now silent pair, Celestines shaking hand just within inches of the sculptors shirt as if she were about to hoist his up and slap some sense into him. 

 

“Agreed.” Leon delicately shooed the gypsy queens hand away as nonchalantly as he would a buzzing gnat. “Now get up there and help her out. If I’m not going anywhere, you’re going to have to do some saving, captain.” He flaunted her former title with his typical tone.

 

“Charming. You sure know how to talk to a woman.” She rolled her eyes and picked herself up. “That much I can figure out from Frollo getting past you.” She grabbed her sword from where she’d left it on the tiled floor, the familiar touch of the hilt almost comforting to the former captain. She began to walk towards the steps before stopping and turning around. “You’re not coming?” 

 

Celestine shook her head. “I’m not about to leave him down here with only the archdeacon to stop him.”

 

“I already said I wasn’t going anywhere,” He growled from his place on the floor. 

 

“Just go.” The gypsy queen cut him off with a glare. “You need to stop Frollo before she does anything we can’t fix!”

 

With that, Phoebe charged up the spiral staircase, forcing herself to run faster than she’d ever ran before. The dark stairway made her cringe in the shadow of her childhood fears, but she pressed on the winding path. Her steps and pulse thumped and echoed in her head in her urgency to reach Esmerald and Quasimoda before Frollo could. They had only been a few minutes behind her entering the cathedral. She couldn’t have made it that far.

 

The light of the world above her spilled into the staircase and caused a beautiful glint on her silvery steel blade. She jumped the last two steps in anticipation for what awaited her at the end of the path, but silence greeted her preparedness. Snoke stung her nose and eyes as the visibility dropped to zero. She stilled for a moment and looked in any direction she could for an indication of trouble. 

 

A voice rang somewhere to her right-- one that was painfully familiar to her and the entire city. “ _ Leaving so soon? _ ” The voice drawled with a sickly sweet charm. The strike of steel on stone echoed between the two towers.

 

Phoebe immediately forged on in the direction Frollo had spoken from, knowing the question had most likely not been directed at her. A conclusion entered her mind. That meant that Quasimoda and Esmerald still had a chance. Frollo had never been one to talk to herself despite her little escapade with the fireplace being a subject of merriment to the men in her guard and Phoebe herself found it more disturbing than funny at the time. 

 

There was another sound of a scream and the impact of solid rock with metal. She picked up her pace, speed-walking along the blood red shadowed balcony. Black smoke had begun to billow up from the square again and as the former captain looked down the cobblestone streets below seemed to reflect an all to realistic depiction of hell, brimstone and all.

 

A third strike with no voices, but crumbling stone. She blindly fumbled along the smoky walkway until the tower was no longer under her grasp. The railing was quickly found. Suddenly the billowing cover seemed to evaporate as though held steadfast by an invisible barrier. The world quickly became much clearer. Her head instantly craned upwards to connect sight and sound. 

 

Then she regretted doing so as she saw Frollo strike the corner gargoyle of the tower across from her, where an obviously shaped hunchback was precariously perched. Only a beat of dialogue passed before Frollo tossed her black cape over the gentle giant and threw her cape down, sending Quasimoda tumbling from the statue towards the street below.      

 

She knew what was required of her now. There was no way she would ever reach the next level of the cathedral to subdue Frollo in time.

 

***

 

The seconds were quickly becoming hours in the time Esmerald had been holding Quasimoda by her fingertips. His arms stung from strain of holding someone easily twice his size. With desperation he pleaded to an unconscious hunchback to hold on just a little longer as if he could pull her up on his own when there was no logical possibility of that unless there was some sort of God-given miracle. In this case, he knew that she was as dead as Frollo if she did snap awake and give him a minute to rest. 

 

He was still struggling to comprehend what had happened within what was only a few extremely significant minutes. He had narrowly escaped brutal execution from Frollo and been forced to drop his friend into a fiery cauldron. Now, it seemed he didn’t even need the homicidal judge to do Quasimoda in. 

 

“Qausi, come on!” He grunted as the sweat slipped between his grip on her larger hand. “Snap out of it!” 

 

He felt her hand slip from his and she dropped like a stone towards certain death with her mistress. He screamed and threw himself over the rail in a last ditch attempt to save the bell ringer who’d save his life. His hands only clasped around air and his heart leapt into his throat as he watched Quasimoda get smaller and smaller. 

 

But then a pair of hands shot out from somewhere down below. Someone had caught her. His pulse still raced, but he smiled through the wind and darted towards the nearest set of stairs that would get him down towards his friend and her savior. The gypsy boy already had very real idea of who that savior was.

 

***

 

She had been shocked numb from the truth. She’d faltered in the face of true evil and wickedness. She’d lost consciousness during the one time she needed it most of all. And she was ready to take the plunge, if it meant she could see her mother once before she perished. Quasimoda simply didn’t have it in her to pick herself up after realizing her entire existence as a hideous freak had been nothing but an articulate web of fabrication courtesy of a woman who’d once installed fear and shock amongst anyone caught whispering her name. It was a bitter, rather large pill to swallow.

 

In her mind before she’d passed out, she swore she saw someone flash before her vision. At first she thought it was her mother, but then the features changed. Something about him looked almost familiar, a teenagers face in the shade of a cloudy day. Then for a split second, everything went black. She couldn’t hear Esmerald’s pleading for her to hold on, she couldn’t feel his touch or the hot winds of hell breathing on her tunic. 

 

But she could remember the rush of air and blood coursing towards her head at she fell from her only home, her ginger locks billowing in the motion and her arms held lamely out to the side like a ragdoll. She expected a hard impact, perhaps not even living to feel the pain of it. She held something slam into her that didn’t feel like stone-- something soft. For a moment, she wondered if the smoke and wind was causing her to hallucinate once more. That this was part of her transition into what awaited her in death.

 

And then she was being pulled. The stone scraped into her hosen and the edge of what felt like a column pressed along her back as she was dragged in from the outside. The world instantly seemed much darker, but more tolerable than the blazing sights of the burning city. She was standing on her own two feet, and then realized she still held no strength and threw an arm around whoever was helping her before crumpling into the figure's chest with a limp squeak. The person put a hand on her other own.

 

She opened her hazel eyes again, and almost burst into tears. Never in all her life had she ever expected to be so happy to see Phoebe. She laughed and threw both arms around the blonde in a crushing hug that made the former captain wheeze, so she loosened her grip. She felt a hand pat her proudly on the back.

 

“Glad to see you’re finally falling for me.” She remarked with a smirk.

 

“Don’t push your luck there, captain.” Esmerald matched her grin from where he stood at the archway to the corridor, his green eyes sparkling with joy at seeing both of his friends alive and for the most part unharmed.

 

Both women helped each other up, a massive smile spreading across the deformed young woman’s face. Esmerald wasted no time and within seconds had her wrapped in a tight hug which Quasimoda was happy to reciprocate. She giggled with a childish joy she’d never before been allowed to experience in years of forced and practiced decorum. 

 

“I am never going to stop owing you, am I?” The gypsy boy joked.

 

“As long as we’re all alive.” She shook her head. “That’s enough for me.”

 

Esmerald chuckled. “That’s something I never thought I’d be agreeing with.”

 

“Seems like there’s always a first for everything.” The hunchback acknowledged with a quiet tone as Phoebe walked towards them, grinning almost sheepishly at Esmerald. “Speaking of which,” She tacked on as her eyes leveled on the woman who’d saved her live only a few moments ago.

 

Then Quasimoda reached over to Phoebe with a beefy hand and closed around her left hand. She did the same with Esmerald’s right one, and slowly guided her own hands back towards each other until the blonde’s fair-skinned, rather small hand was resting palm down above the gypsy boy’s calloused tawny hand. The hunchback looked between the pair and smiled softly at them both as the former captain and the fugitive met eyes, Esmerald nearly a full head taller then Phoebe without her armor or boots. With great care she pressed the two hands together and sealed them within her own for a few moments as if decreeing them husband and wife-- which in all honesty neither of them seemed against the scenario.

 

With her work at allowing and helping cultivate  the obvious complete, she released the two hands as they continued to stay together and a small, knowing grin crawled along both faces. It took less than another beat of happy silence before Phoebe had thrown herself into her gypsy’s arms and wrapped an arm around his raven bush whilst he supported her back and straw blonde head with both scarred hands. They shared their first, real kiss with Quasimoda’s very approving consent.

 

As she watched the happy pair continue their full on tongue kiss, she could only smile at their obvious happiness. She wasn’t bitter or upset anymore about anything they chose to do. Her heartache had disappeared. That didn’t mean she wasn’t over Esmerald completely; she still very much cared for him. But she didn’t care if he wanted the former captain over her. What she cared about was Esmerald being happy. And if Phoebe was what made him so, who was she to deny him anything when it was rather obvious the two had been meant for eachother since… well not since her almost arresting him, but since they saw past each other's differences-- possibly since their first brawl.   

 

Quasimoda was no expert on love, she was happy to acknowledge that fact as truth. But what she saw before her in the light of the rising sun that chased away the deeds of the wicked judge seemed more like real love than anything she could ever hope for or witness in the world. As she’d said herself moments before, she was just happy to be alive.

 

And if love could come for her one day, she had a feeling it wouldn’t be so hard to miss until it came.

 

“Qausimoda.” A voice came from the archway. Esmerald and Phoebe broke their kiss, all three heads turning to face the man who’d broken the happy silence.

 

The hunchback’s eyes opened wide at the sight of the disheveled sculptor as he stood over the shoulder of Celestine who helped him hobble along. Phoebe shot a quizzical look at the gypsy queen who shook her head and rolled her eyes. Esmerald trailed a hand along the blonde’s cheek, caressing the shorter hair, looking between Leon and the door. Together they walked past the two gypsies, hand in hand as if to give the three of them privacy.

 

Celestine huffed and gave Leon a grin, letting him off of her shoulder to stand on his own. He nodded, and she took her leave. The bell ringer raised an eyebrow, completely lost in the silence or her ignorance.

 

“What happened to you?” She glanced between the scarring wound on his stomach which his unbuttoned shirt did little to hide. A decent length of navy flax had been wrapped around his midsection like a bandage, but the blood still stained the fabric. 

 

“Frollo happened.” He answered numbly shook his head. “In all my years I never thought this day would come.”

 

For a moment, she wondered what he meant. It obviously wasn’t the injury. “You mean mis-” She paused, the word almost rolling off her tongue before she caught herself before realizing she didn’t have another name to call her by as easily. “I mean Frollo?” The word felt like sandpaper on her cheek… it rubbed her the wrong way despite it being all the judge was to her now.

 

“I guess, if you want to be honest.” The gypsy acknowledged with a slight laugh, something that was rare for him. “But you deserve the truth.”

 

The hunchback sighed. Why was it everyone had to be so intentionally cryptic? She wasn’t slow, contrary to popular belief. “What about?” She crossed her arms.

 

Leon walked over to the balcony and propped himself up on his arms lazily on the rail, beckoning for the hunchback to join him. The sun was just barely beginning its climb into a color-drenched sky. Quasimoda limped over, sitting on the edge just as her lifelong companion sighed with melancholy. 

 

“You always wanted to know how I lost my sight?” He turned his head and looked at her with his empty eyes, gesturing to them with a calloused and scarred hand. The ginger nodded, something within her tugging at her stomach.

 

“Leon, what’s going on, here?” She asked quietly, suddenly feeling anxious despite her curiosity.

 

“We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.” He answered, looking back out at the sunrise again. “It’s only fair to tell you what you deserve to know. After all, that’s what family is for.”

 

***

 

The applause and cheers of an entire city were almost deafening as Phoebe led Esmerald, Leon and Celestine into the light of the early morning, the brilliant gleam of the sun appearing for the first time in what felt like an eternity. The people cheered in victory, cries for celebration from both worlds echoing the square outside of the massive cathedral which had survived the impossible unsathed; almost like an act of the divine. What seemed like everyone in the world stood at their feet in the square, their weapons hoisted into the blue sky like the beacons of rebellion they themselves represented. There wasn’t a miserable soul anywhere for miles that morning. 

 

Smiling wide at the attention, the former captain held the gypsy’s hand and threw both arms into the air as if flaunting their triumphant victory over the most malicious force on the continent. It seemed as if for once the city could breath their anxiousness away and allow themselves leeway before damnation-- as if Frollo had been the one thing that kept them quiet in the face of an accusation of heresy. 

 

Then, after a few moments Esmerald lowered his arm from Phoebe’s high, smiling softly at her. The blonde nodded and matched his grin before letting him go. The applause suddenly slowed and quieted as confusion began to spread in a thin veil around the citizens of Paris. Esmerald then turned away from the crowd and walked back towards the main door of Notre Dame, the shade of the stone arch not affecting the glint of happiness in his striking emerald eyes. 

 

Quasimoda stood in the darkness of her home and prison, the sanctity of the church protecting the fragility of her shyness. She’d grown in the darkness, the cold stone walls keeping her safe from the world that could never accept her, the world that had made her into their fool only three days prior. The wicked, cruel world her mistress had told her to avoid from the very moment she could understand French. She’d thrived in her loneliness, her isolation, where nobody could hurt her for something she simply couldn’t help. 

 

Even though the bell ringer had single-handedly saved the city from burning in the hell Frollo had created, she couldn’t bear to be out there again. She couldn’t let her hopes get too high. Even with what reassurance everyone could offer her, it meant nothing once the first tomato bled into her pale skin. Her legs quivered in her hosen. Her heart crawled up her throat. Her eyes brimmed with a pathetic fear that her adopted mother would’ve smiled at and petted her for her compliance. Even the chilling revelation of everything Leon had told her after twenty years still felt like the prick of a pin compared to facing the city of Paris again.

 

But Esmerald came closer and reached a hand towards her, into her sanctuary, as if to show he wasn’t about to let her face this alone. The moment where he had freed her from the flogging wheel crossed her memories, where he’d said no one deserved to be tormented for their appearance when beauty came from within.

 

It was a striking and compelling message when said by one of the most beautiful boys in the country, but no matter what service she had performed, that wouldn’t change who she was, who she had always been. The ginger shivered and stared at him meekly, brushing a strand of straw-like hair from her view. 

 

She took a deep breath as her arm extended and her hand enclosed around the gypsy’s, taking it as he slowly guided her from her safe place. For a split second the realization of what she was about to do came over and the anxiety almost made the hunchback break free and run back to her tower. The crippling fear and nervousness made her limp slowly into the doorway. The first rays on the sun crossed her shoes.

 

The light beamed directly into her line of sight and she cowered, lifting her other hand to block the waves of brightness from leaving her blind as her brother. Her pupils dilated as she forced them open, the hazel dots growing again as she stepped into the hot sun that so often alluded her in the altitude of the bell tower.

 

Quasimoda squinted as she followed the gypsy boy onto the dais in front of the massive church that had hidden her away from her city for over two decades. Through her weakened sight she could see the citizens of Paris as pale and tawny blobs, looking on with unreadable faces at the hunched young woman who seemed oddly familiar to them. Realization passed over many of their faces but still they concealed what emotion Quasimoda was capable of understanding. The entire square was completely and deathly silent. Even the pigeons that had stalked Lorenzo in the towers seemed to quit their cooing.

 

She blinked, mouth slightly opened as she waited for the first insult to fly. Her head swiveled left, then right at the awed faces before her. The five thousand eyes focused on every deformity, every scar, every pore. It was almost too overwhelming for her to take.

 

Phoebe and Esmerald stood back behind her, Celestine crossing her arms and Leon looking more than ready to save the situation if such a thing became necessary. The silence prevailed for a painfully long few seconds and the hunchback was about to cover her face and go back inside to swallow the non acceptance the city left her to bear when out of the crowd stepped a child.

 

He looked about six with ratty blonde hair and dragged behind him a worn stuffed bear that looked as if it had been dragged around the entirety of the earth and back. He dropped the thing at the edge of the crowd and a woman who looked to be his mother picked it up. His face was twisted with an odd mixture of anxiety and curiosity. Quasimoda stared in complete surprise at the boy as he walked up the steps, the tiny thing he was, and stopped just before her shadow. 

 

He then reached up with tiny fingers towards the hunchback, who almost recoiled from his touch until his soft skin touched her own. The other hand traced the soft part of her cheek and realization came over her. He wasn’t hurting her. He was barely a sapling with enough strength to hold his stuffed bear. He’d left his security blanket behind, just like she had. 

 

Squeezing her eyes shut as a massive smile spread across her face, she lowered her head to the boys height as he wrapped both arms around her and gave her a hug. She almost burst into tears as he began to stroke her coarse ginger hair, thanking her for her deeds to save the city and showing her he saw past the features to the golden hearted girl she was. 

 

She looked at the boy for a moment and began giggling as the boy gave her a gap toothed grin and wrapped a small hand around her massive index finger, slowly leading her into the crowd of Parisians to show them she wasn’t to be feared. 

 

Warmth surged through her in the light of the sun in within second she was surrounded by Parisians who were laughing and congratulating her. Suddenly she lifted her head as a familiar gypsy queen shouted something. 

 

“Three cheers for Quasimoda, the Hunchback of Notre Dame!” 

 

The crowd needed no prodding to do so and in seconds she was being hoisted into the air like a beloved hero, the sounds of praise flooding her ears in an all too familiar moment of happiness for being accepted into the world. Suddenly the men who’d hoisted her up began marching, the crowds cheering exploding ten-fold. She was being paraded through the town for who she was and nobody had any qualms about it!

 

_ “So, here is a riddle, to guess if you can,” _ The gypsy queen began to sing as Leon picked her up himself.  _ “Sing the bells of Notre Dame…” _ She kissed him softly on the nose and he smirked gleefully. 

 

It was a fundamental riddle many citizens or Paris asked themselves in the decades and centuries to come after the hunchback’s heroic actions to save them from the actions of someone less than sincere. It brought to question their morals and beliefs as much as anything else ever could. Frollo was a woman with monstrous intentions while Quasimoda was a had the appearance of a monster with the heart of a pure and innocent girl. It begged the question: 

 

What makes a monster and what makes a man?

 

Does it take a gypsy, a soldier, a truant, a blind man to see the riddle? 

 

It seems that that is a question only the the toll of the bells can answer.

  
_ The End _


End file.
